


the nights were as dark as my baby (half as beautiful, too)

by Sabulum



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: (Julian is bad at taking care of himself), Angst, Brundle is a good girl, Drama, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Julian Devorak's Route Spoilers, LGBTQ Character of Color, Medieval Medicine, Nonbinary Apprentice (The Arcana), Other, Plague Doctors, Poor Life Choices, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Red Plague (The Arcana), The Apprentice is Julian's apprentice, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabulum/pseuds/Sabulum
Summary: When Manat comes to Julian, demanding that he accept their help, he cannot decline. The Red Plague is ravaging Vesuvia, and he is no closer to finding a cure than he was months ago. Much as he would like to shoulder the burden alone, he is floundering. The magician’s help may be just what he needs to stay afloat.Then again, maybe not.





	1. Part 1:  There Is a Roadway, Muddy and Foxgloved

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully, by posting the first chapter of this fic, that means I will finish it. Thanks to Alix (the Fiancée) and Morgan (the Arcana Ph.D) for introducing me to this delightful trash game, and giving me encouragement to write about The Noodle Boy. He’s an idiot bisexual disaster and I love him.
> 
> This fic is currently un-betaed, so please let me know if you find any typos!
> 
> P.S. Am I the first one to title a Julian fic after Hozier lyrics, aka the _other_ tall soft horny sub boy? No, I am not. Is that just because every song off of _Wasteland, Baby_ is an incredibly apt Julian song? Yes, it is. This fic’s theme song is [As It Was](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7q-4mfl_s4), and I apologize in advance for it. Don’t @ me, Morgan.

> **Part 1**
> 
>   
“There is a roadway  
Muddy and foxgloved  
Whenever I'd had life enough  
My heart is screaming of”

It wasn't Julian's idea to take on an apprentice. It just sort of... happened.

Which is to say, the apprentice came to _him_, and he really didn't have much choice in the matter.

“Excuse me? Are you the plague doctor?”

They'd burst into his clinic, and he'd blinked at them over the head of a second-stage plague victim, weary from days of futile work. Their eyes were fierce—that was the first thing he’d noticed. Gold. Bright, like fire. He doubted he could ever forget how they burned into him. They were a burst of color in his dark office, and he'd struggled to comprehend them at first, unexpected as they were. He just sat there, his reactions made slow by fatigue.

“I suppose?” he'd finally offered, and then he’d gone back to his work.

“I'll be right with you,” he may have said, or possibly; “Just a moment.” Equally as likely, he hadn't said anything at all, too consumed in the suffering of his patient. He no longer remembered the dead woman's name, except that she’d been deep in the throes of fever, and she had groaned as he applied a poultice to her chest, pressing it down over her lungs. His intruder had waited silently by the door, their face like stone as the woman pleaded with him to help her, please, _help_. She was dying.

Julian had muttered quiet reassurances, then given her a tonic to aid her sleep. Futile measures, all; the poultice was only for pain, and the tonic would let her sleep into the next day, whereupon she’d be too delirious to think, or fear, or beg. He was doing little more for her than easing her symptoms before sending her to the Lazaret. That knowledge ate away at him like its own type of sickness, a three-day headache pounding behind his eyes.

Finally, his sad attempt at comfort had settled the woman into sleep. He’d closed the curtain on the far back cot, granting her some semblance of privacy, and turned at last to face the intruder and their warm eyes.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“It’s-It’s fine. She’s your patient.” Their gaze had remained fixed over his shoulder, troubled. “Is she—?”

“Dying,” Julian had said simply.

Grief had flashed across their face before being hidden away. “I see. A plague victim?”

“Yes. Most of my patients are, these days,” he said, glum.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Julian had blinked at them wearily, scratching the back of his head. Whoever this person was, they didn’t seem like a plague victim themselves. From their long, but chubby face, it was impossible to pinpoint an exact age—they had the strong jaw and brow of an adult, but the round cheeks of a toddler—regardless, though, they had a youthful glow. Healthy. Where was the feverish pallor? The general air of malaise? The slow, subtle reddening of the sclera?

Then their eyes would _truly_ look like fire.

“You’re not sick,” Julian said, not quite asking.

A flash of amusement crossed their face. They hid it away just as quickly as the grief. “I don’t know. Do I look sick?”

“Not with plague, at least.” Julian eyed them assessingly from head to toe. “A cold? Or rash? It can be hard to tell, sometimes. Maybe you’ve come for a fungal ointment.”

He saw a hint of bright teeth as they smiled. “No. None of that.”

In his professional opinion, they had not looked ill at all. They were stout and dark-skinned, wearing the sort of flowing, colorful-patterned fabrics one might expect to see in Milova or Prakra1, and sturdy workman's shoes into which they had tucked their pants. Shorter than him, they had to look up to meet his gaze, but they did so unerringly. Julian stared right back. Only when the silence started to stretch did it occur to him that he was still wearing the mask, and he raised a hand to take it off, hand trembling slightly.

“Well. If you’re not sick, then what can I do for you?” He crossed to the door, setting the mask on one of his bookshelves.

As if to mirror him, they lowered the red-and-gold scarf from around their head. “I’ve heard of a doctor in this part of town. One trying to cure the plague, and treating the townsfolk for free.”

“Mm.”

“Are you Doctor Devorak?”

Wearily, Julian had scrubbed at his face. “The one and only.”

Things were clearer through his own eyes than through the lenses of the mask, so if anything, their gaze was even brighter in reality. They had nodded, then frowned at him. He had slumped. At their intense stare, he had braced himself for potential shouting.

Perhaps they had lost someone, he thought, if they weren’t ill themselves? He was no stranger to people coming to yell at him, and had mostly grown used to it by that point. He’d only hoped this one didn’t grow violent.

Instead, they had said; "My name is Manat,” and seated themselves presumptuously at his desk.

“Er.” Julian blinked, baffled. “Um. Nice to meet you?”

“Many people have come into my shop of late. They seek herbs, or crystals, or readings—mostly, they seek help.” They had held his gaze solemnly. “More than once, I have heard them mention a plague doctor in the poor district who also helped them. He eased their loved ones’ suffering, asked nothing in return, and was kind to their families when they died. They seemed grateful to him, and spoke highly of his work.”

Julian flinched.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m here to see if you’ll let me work with you.”

“_Pardon?_”

In hindsight, they hadn't seemed like they were joking. At the time, though, Julian had been startled, and operating on very little sleep, and so he had laughed.

“Really—no, you’re joking. _Really_? You want to work with _me_?”

“You.” Their square jaw had set when he laughed, and now they glared at him mulishly. Julian’s answering grin was self-deprecating.

“Why would you want to do a thing like that?”

“I told you. I hear stories about you.” Manat had leaned forward, gaze boring into his as if they could make him agree through force of will alone. “The townspeople all know your name, and claim that you’ve helped them. That’s worth something. I want to help people, and I want to put a stop to this accursed plague. That means I need to come work with _you_.”

But Julian was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You’re misinformed.”

“Am I? Are you not a plague doctor?”

His lips pursed. “I am, but—”

“Couldn’t you use an extra set of hands?”

“That’s not—” Julian frowned at them. “That’s not the point. You can’t just—”

“Don’t tell me you ‘prefer to work alone,’” they deadpanned.

“—I prefer to work—”

He’d cut himself off, indignant. “Hey, now,” he grumbled.

Manat had stared at him, quietly demanding. “Don’t turn me down without considering it, doctor. Please. I don’t make this request lightly.”

They had looked so earnest that Julian had hesitated.

“There are other doctors,” he tried.

“Not many,” they said flatly, “and even fewer that I’ve heard well of. Most anyone selling ‘remedies’ is just seeking to take advantage of the desperate.”

Julian had no response to that.

“Please,” they said. “Consider it?”

So Julian did.

He noted, for the first time, how there was fear in their voice. And—in their eyes, too. A flicker of precisely what they’d mentioned—of desperation. He rubbed his forehead, sighing heavily as his headache throbbed in time with his pulse, taking in this brash intruder before him and realizing that they were just like everyone else in Vesuvia. Afraid to die.

Or, no, he corrected himself. Perhaps not. Their fingers twisted in the red-gold-turquoise of their shawls, worrying at the diamond pattern, and a muscle twitched in their clenched jaw. They’d come to him wanting to help, even though that meant putting them in close contact with the plague. Helping people right now was _dangerous_. Perhaps, like Julian, they feared something greater. Perhaps the despair of others mattered more to them than their own death.

“What makes you think you could help me?” he had finally asked.

They’d shifted, sitting taller, recognizing a chance when it was offered, and flashed him a wan smile.

“I’m used to working with others.” They checked things off on their thick fingers. “I’m very good at making myself useful, even if just as an extra set of hands. And I pick things up quickly. I’ve studied alchemy, and know the effects and interactions of many herbs. I’m sure that will come in handy.”

Julian nodded, forehead resting in one hand, massaging his temples.

“And I’m a magician.”

He stopped.

Eyes wide, he looked up.

“Oh, no.” Nothing had ever shut him down so quickly. “No, no, no—no. No, I think you should leave.” Julian ushered them up from his chair, shuffling them to the door in sudden haste. Too shocked to protest, Manat went, their expression fading from confidence to confusion, then outrage, before sliding towards anger as he opened the door behind them.

“Excuse me, what?” they had demanded, barring a forearm against the wall to prevent being moved. “What just happened?”

They set their feet in the doorway as he tried to force them out, and he recalled being surprised at their strength. Their bicep flexed in resistance, gold eyes flashing in ire. Still, Julian had shoved gently at their shoulder, as if to coax them to leave, swallowing past his fear. “Just—if you would, kindly—? I’d really like you to—”

They slammed a hand on the doorjamb—_his_ doorjamb!—making him jump back. “Stop that!”

Startled and outraged, Julian had stopped. He held himself very still, heart racing like a frightened rabbit’s, breath coming fast as Manat took an angry step towards him.

“Have you not worked _hours_ in this clinic, Doctor Devorak?”

“What—well, yes, of course!”

“Have you slept in the past three days?”

He’d sputtered. “I—you—I mean.” He drew himself up, trembling. “What does that matter?!”

They fixed him with a pointed glare, teeth flashing in a snarl. “I _have_ to do something. I will not stand idly by while people in this city suffer, even if some people would prefer do just that. And you, _doctor_, can use the help!”

They shoved him. Julian, slow with lack of sleep, had stumbled back inelegantly into a cot, and his legs had taken the path of least resistance and decided to buckle, depositing him onto it. ‘Case in point,’ their expression had said; crossing their arms, they had towered over him despite their stature, and Julian had opened his mouth to shout back at them, still trembling—

But he was interrupted by a weary, pained groan.

“Oh, no.” Arrested, Julian had looked back into the clinic. From the curtained corner came a soft rustling, punctuated by whimpers. “Oh. We’ve woken her. Darling, hang on—”

Without a backward glance, he snagged the plague mask from the bookshelf and ran to his patient’s side, hands steadying as he pulled the protection over his face. He slipped through the curtain, and gave a moue of sympathy at what he saw. The woman had been awake, but not coherent: muttering to herself, her reddened eyes had fixed sightlessly on the ceiling, voice raspy and unintelligible as her gaze roved in the throes of fever. She’d been visibly in pain, and restless. She groaned and writhed and tossed beneath the thin sheets, hair plastered to her face, one of her hands escaping to twitch spasmodically against her chest. Her labored breaths had crackled from the blood in her lungs.

Julian hovered over her for a moment in distress, gloved hand lingering inches from her face before he snapped to attention. Idiot—they hadn’t woken her. She was _dying_.

He crossed to the hutch on the back wall, where he kept ingredients. Reaching for his shelf of oils and tinctures, he pulled bottles down with one hand and grabbed a mortar and pestle with the other, hurriedly mixing another tonic. A base of mild rose-water, with honey for flavor and to coat the throat; lavender and feverfew from the drying rack above; grind it down into a paste. Two drops valerian extract. Combine it well. No, no, too grainy, needs more honey. Where did he put the chamomile oil? Maybe towards the back—quick, quick—

Before he could finish, though, it registered in the back of Julian’s mind that the woman had fallen quiet.

A familiar sense of dread swept over him. Whirling, he prepared to search the woman’s face for signs of life, devastated that she had passed so quickly. He had come up short at what he saw. Manat crouched by her bedside, foolishly close and with only their shawl to cover their face; they had wrapped it tightly in lieu of a plague mask, and only their eyes were visible. And their eyes—through the window of fabric, they seemed to glow softly—and, and their hand, their hand _was_ glowing. Blue, like the hottest part of a flame. Blue with magic. They had pressed it to the woman’s forehead, light illuminating her sickly face, and they were murmuring soft words of comfort as they did— _something_.

Julian’s hands tightened on the bowl, his entire being urging him to tear them away from his patient. But he did not. Whatever they were doing, Julian could plainly see the good it wrought. The woman lay quiet beneath Manat’s palm, mouth barely moving. Her pained writhing had stopped, and the ugly sound of her breathing was lessening more and more as she calmed, her eyelids fluttering with little more than mild confusion.

Silent, Julian looked away just long enough to add the oil of chamomile, then he turned back and approached, bowl in hand. He helped the woman up enough to drink, aided by one of Manat’s strong hands. Then, gently, he laid her back down. All the while, Manat did not look away from the woman’s plague-red eyes, smiling softly despite the terrible sight, intent on the radiating warmth of their spell.

Clearing his throat, Julian pulled back from them.

In hindsight, perhaps his earlier reaction had been—had been stronger than the situation strictly warranted. But—but he was tired, and—and—

“Why does it matter that I’m a magician?” Manat’s voice came soft, free of judgment. “You were considering my proposal, before that.”

Flinching, Julian had avoided their eyes, feeling judged nonetheless. “It-It doesn’t. Matter.”

“Really? Because as soon as I said it, you shoved me towards the door.”

Julian swallowed, and looked away. He gestured back into the clinic proper, and Manat slowly stood; closing the curtain behind them, Julian stepped back out to the center of the floor and gathered his thoughts, trying to work out what to say.

Manat waited.

At times, the battlefields of the South 2  seemed whole lifetimes away. Other days, it felt like he never truly left, only taking bits and pieces of it with him elsewhere. The things he’d seen, the deeds he’d performed there hung over him like great shadows, lurking in corners and leering when he turned around—and the magic, the _spells_, those things he’d never really understood—the destruction he’d seen wrought by them—

Well. He certainly wasn’t going to try and explain it to a total stranger.

“Please. Just…” Pursing his lips, Julian looked away from Manat’s heavy gaze. “You can do better than to work with me. Please, just go somewhere else.”

But, Manat persisted.

“I have to do something.” The way they said it, it was a simple statement of fact. The sky was blue. The plague was hell. They had to help. “My magic is strong, but I can’t _heal_ people with it. Human bodies don’t work that way. I can only relieve pain, or aid sleep—getting rid of wounds is beyond my power. I can’t cure anything. Not like a doctor can.”

A rueful smile had twisted his mouth. “You really think I’m doing any better?”

Manat gave a decisive nod. “I do. At least you care enough to try, unlike the nobility.”

True enough.

Julian had put up a perfunctory argument thereafter. He hadn’t cured anything, either, he told them; he hadn’t helped anyone. All of his patients, every _single_ plague victim who’d passed through his clinic, was dead now. He, too, could only relieve their pain. But, no matter how he tried to discourage them, the stout, be-shawled magician only glared at him and insisted that he had done far more than that—and anyway, wouldn’t he have more success if he had another perspective on his work? A magical one?

It certainly couldn’t hurt.

They had fixed him with a stern and noble frown.

"Let me help," they'd said. All but demanded, really.

And so, ultimately, for lack of any better argument, he had.

— — —

The woman died the next day.

It happened earlier than expected, while Julian was still arranging transportation to the Lazaret. He’d left in the morning, to fetch the body collectors3, but been waylaid by the general horror of interacting with the grisly fellows. By the time he reached the clinic, it was too late.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Julian had failed to sleep again that night. Instead, he alternated sitting at her bedside and organizing his stock, so that he never again had to hunt for the chamomile oil. The woman had been restless, muttering nonsense, and so he had spent the better part of the night gently stroking her hair; he whispered futile apologies, and mopped sweat from her brow, and sighed over the deeper reddening of her sclera. As the color finally overtook both eyes, he bowed over her to listen to gurgling rasp of her lungs, and noted that he’d need to fetch the collectors first thing. Then he had made a tea of yarrow for her fever, coaxing her to swallow some.

“I’ll take you by your family,” he whispered. “Before the end. They’ll want to say goodbye.”

When sunrise came, he donned his cloak.

“Guard the clinic, will you, Brundle?” he called back wearily.

A huff from the back room answered him, and Julian left, locking up behind him.

The collectors made their base at the docks, on the farthest point of the farthest wharf in the city. It was sunny and cold when he reached their warehouse, just after sun-up; yet, the building was like a dark spot, a huge, wood box of a structure looming against the backdrop of the sea. Julian approached with full confidence, despite the boarded windows and lack of signage, unimpeded by the splintered wood or flaking black paint that signaled just how little the city cared about this place. He raised a gloved hand to knock, and brushed flecks of paint from his knuckles as he waited.

A grumble from within bade him; “Hold on!”

“Charming as ever, Sacha,” Julian murmured, and stood in the shadow of the building, his eyes roving instinctively out to sea.

The view of the Lazaret here was second to none. Purposefully, the warehouse sat as close to it as possible, jutting out on the tip of a cape. Indeed, this was as close to the Lazaret as most could get without dying. Already, despite the early hour, great plumes of smoke billowed from the island, signaling the start of the fires; they would burn all day, not stopping until well after the sun had set. Julian shuddered faintly, pulling his coat tighter against the chill.

A loud creaking drew his attention, and Julian turned back to see the decrepit doors squeal open. A hulking form stood there. Sacha, the current captain, greeted him with a scowl.

“You.”

“Me,” Julian greeted in return. He grinned rakishly, though Sacha couldn’t see it. “Got a minute? I have work.”

“You always have work, plague doctor.” It was half-begrudgingly respectful acknowledgment, half-statement of fact. With clear reluctance, he swung open the giant wood door, and Julian stepped inside the wood shipping house.

To a man, the body collectors had no fear; they were a bloody-minded, morbid group of volunteers, who spent their days collecting the dead and transporting the dying, shuttling plague-ridden boats back and forth across the channel. Few had any family. Those who did were even more dour than the rest, well aware of what they had to lose. But the work paid well, and, if you asked any one of them, they’d say: “Someone has to do it. Might as well be me.”

Julian understood them rather more than he liked to admit, and so he was not cowed by the severity of the glares that greeted him. The collectors knew and respected Julian, as he knew and respected them in return—but that didn’t mean they liked the sight of the bird-mask, any more than Julian liked the pig-like black masks that they wore. To a man, they scowled at him, then turned back almost in unison to their boats, which they lived in a constant cycle of cleaning and repairing, coating the hulls in black tar. The far wall opened out directly onto the water, and Julian saw a few late-stage victims being shuffled, weeping, onto one of the ominous longboats. A pig-masked collector stood motionless at their side, alert in case any of them should try to run. On the boat, another crouched solemnly, comforting someone with a hand on their shoulder, sympathetic despite the blank stare of the mask. Julian had to look away.

Sacha didn’t lead him in any further into what he called ‘their’ territory. As was his wont, he stopped, closed the door, crossed his burly arms, and glared until Julian spoke.

Julian did, solemnly. “There’s a woman from the docks, who was caught in that last wave of infections.”

“From the granary?” Sacha shifted, mouth twitching down beneath the cover of his beard. “Last week?”

“That’s the one.”

The collector hummed lowly. “Got a lot of work from that one, _last week_. You sure took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Well.” Julian lifted one shoulder in a shrug. The granary infection had claimed many lives—mostly on the farm itself, for obvious reasons, and in the docks, which bordered the farmlands and handled transportation of their goods. Julian had spent most of last week on the farm, helping those too ill to be moved; critically, though, he had received no patients at his clinic. “Dockworkers are as stubborn as mules, as you well know. Her family was reluctant to bring her to me, but she was doing well when she arrived.”

Sacha huffed. “’Til now.”

It wasn’t a question, but Julian nodded anyway. “Until now. Her symptoms progressed quickly. She won’t last the day.”

“That’s how it always goes, innit?” Sacha grumbled. “Think they’re so good, so _healthy_, maybe it’s just a wee cold, ‘til suddenly we’re being called to gather the corpse—”

He was halted by a wailing at the back of the warehouse.

“Wait,” Sacha growled, when Julian darted forward instinctively.

Stopping mid-stride, Julian glanced back at Sacha before ceding, fists clenched as he looked for the source of the cry without venturing any farther. A small, skinny collector was on their knees some yards away, gesturing frantically towards the stacks of lumber and barrels. They were supported by a colleague, whose hand on their shoulder seemed to be the only thing keeping them upright, the small figure whimpering in obvious distress.

“Is someone hurt?” Julian asked. “Sacha—”

Sacha snarled at him. “Stay!”

Grimly, the captain followed the crowd who were gathering to see what was what, pulling the black mask from a hook on his belt, his look warning Julian not to follow. Only Julian’s respect for the man prevented him from moving anyway.

As it turned out, though, no doctor was needed. Not any more.

Julian’s heart sank as the collectors pulled an irregular, roughly human-shaped mass from the stacks of wood, covering it quickly with burlap before Julian could make out any details. A few rats followed, trying to scurry across the floor, but the collectors dispatched them with almost brutal efficiency and hucked their bodies into the sea. Feeling sick, Julian found the large form of Sacha amongst his men. Sacha looked back. He couldn’t see his face, but Julian imagined that they wore same expression as they looked to one another, equal parts shocked and resigned.

Someone reached beneath the burlap to remove a pig-mask and bowed their head over it.

With the cool dispassion of a professional, Sacha directed his men to clear the scene. The body was loaded onto a boat, and a smaller group set off into the rows to clean up the mess.

Sacha returned to Julian, broad shoulders even more tense than they’d been before.

“What—?” Julian started.

“One of ours.” Sacha’s voice was low, and as rough as gravel. “Must’ve contracted it from one of his ferries. ‘Cept he never told anyone, of course—just worked ‘til he was exhausted, then laid down beneath a tarp to rot. Tar and herbs masked the stench for awhile, but not well. Shorty smelled it. Went to investigate.”

Stricken, Julian looked back. The short collector refused to budge from where they’d fallen to their knees, surrounded by their comrades, shaking their head over and over. It was difficult to smell anything through a mask full of herbs; Julian could well imagine a corpse, hidden in the back rows of lumber, surrounded by the stink of tar, going undiscovered for days.

“What a terrible thing to find,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Sacha’s sigh was audible even through cloth and leather. “S’always nice when we get a warning, before the stench of their putrefying bodies carry the tidings to us. Would that we were always so lucky.”

“If there’s anything—”

Sacha shook his head, once, sharply. “Forget that. You were giving us a warning, plague doctor? Tell us how many, then, and begone. I’ll send a man with you to collect.”

Julian hesitated, but the wavering note in Sacha’s voice convinced him to agree.

“It’s just the one, this time.”

“Just the woman?” Sacha grumbled.

He sounded—’disappointed’ wasn’t the right word, for news of someone’s imminent death, but it came close. Perhaps ‘disgruntled.’ But then, Sacha was always disgruntled.

“Very well, then. Pay up and get out.”

Julian paid the fare and left Sacha to lick his wounds, listening to the captain’s unhappy mutters as he left. As ever, he felt slightly ill trading coin for their services, but there was nothing to be done for it. It had been the way of things in Vesuvia for years. The only silver lining was that they gave plague doctors a special rate.

He pulled his coat tighter, cold in the shadow of the building.

It was only moments after the door shut behind him, but it felt like minutes later that it opened again to release a masked collector. Tall and sturdy, like Sacha, they nodded respectfully to him. Julian nodded back. Thus, he was followed back to his clinic by a silent and looming figure in a pig mask. Neither spoke as they wound through the streets, their duo of masks granting them a wide berth through dockside traffic. Either bird or pig on its own was bad enough, but the two together? Everyone knew an omen of death when they saw it. They left them well enough alone.

Julian himself was unsettled by the collector’s presence, and he knew that they likely felt the same about him. It felt morbid, paying someone to cart a patient away; knowing that their body would be burning mere hours later.

He had meant for the woman to go under her own power, at least. To say goodbye to her family.

Only, when they reached the clinic, it was too late.

The collector made a curious and impatient noise when he stopped, door swung open and key still dangling from his hand. Julian stood frozen in the doorway, face stricken behind the concealment of his mask as he stared. The woman lay motionless on the far back cot, half-hanging over the side, her hand extended as if she’d made one last effort to get up, to get help—but she had not made it. Her face almost touched the floor where she’d collapsed. Julian swallowed thickly at the resounding silence where once there had been wet, labored breathing, knowing without taking another step forward that there would be no heartbeat. That she was gone.

She’d been alive when he left this morning.

The collector, silent until now, placed a hand on his shoulder, clearly sensing his distress. “Alright, there, mate. I’ll take care of it.”

Quick and professional, the burly fellow pulled a burlap sheet from their belt as they crossed the floor. They closed the woman’s eyes in a nod to reverence, then wrapped her in the fabric and bound it snugly. Then, ever practical, they heaved her onto their back like a sack of potatoes, turning to Julian as if she weighed nothing at all.

That was another thing that Julian could not stomach about the collectors. It made little difference to them whether the body was dead or alive; only whether or not they had the plague.

“I—her family,” Julian stuttered.

“They’ll have to be told. I don’t envy you that. But I have a feeling you’ll break the news softly.” Julian felt the collector scrutinizing him. “This your first one, is it?”

“First—?” What? Death? “No.”

“First woman? Mother?”

“No,” Julian whispered.

“Aye?” The pig face stared blankly at him. “…Aye. Well, sometimes they hit harder. Just means you’re human, I suppose.” They shifted the woman on their shoulder, adjusting their grip on her legs. “Take care, now, doctor. Be sure ‘n’ clean up after. Can’t be too careful with this sort of business. Can’t trust the safety of these flimsy masks.”

They tapped the snout of their mask, the lenses making two black holes of their eyes. With that ominous goodbye, they carried the woman out the door, to be carted off with the rest of the city’s dead.

Julian closed up behind them, then stood there with his hand pressed to the wood and shook.

He didn’t know why it upset him so. Perhaps it was the shock of it. Regardless, he—he had to tell the woman’s family of her passing. He had to clean up, that her cot would no longer carry disease. He had to make record of her death. He had to do a number of things. He was unable to make himself move, though, as a wave of unexpected grief crashed through him. Biting his lip, Julian closed his eyes against the sudden pain, thinking again and again of how she’d been alive this morning. He’d stroked her hair as she muttered nonsense, and given her yarrow for the fever; he’d apologized to her, that he had to send her away, but promised that she would see her children again before the end. Before the boat ride. Before the fire.

She’d been _alive_ this morning. Her family had expected a goodbye.

They would not receive it.

He flung his mask off and away with a shout, and buried his face in his hands, trembling as if in the throes of a fever; as if he himself had the plague. His breath shuddered out of him, and he struggled to calm it, tugging sharply on his hair. Yet another patient that he had failed to save.

Why did this never get easier? Why did every loss hurt just as much?

“Damn it,” he said. “Damn, _damn_!”

Brundle came out to investigate his histrionics, whimpering in concern. Julian cursed again and hardly moved as he felt her nuzzle his boot. At his lack of attention, she let out a long, whining sigh, and laid atop his foot with her head on her paws. Julian stared down at her with teeth digging into his lip.

“I can’t do anything for them, Brundle.” His eyes burned at the futility of it. “She came to me, and for what? I barely even eased her pain.”

Brundle whuffed sadly in reply, staring up at him with doleful eyes.

It was many long moments before Julian could collect himself. Then, with a fleeting scratch of Brundle’s ears to give him strength, he did exactly what the collector had suggested: he cleaned. Fetching supplies from the back room, he washed all the sheets, scrubbed all the floors, and wiped down every surface with astringents and fragrant oils until the clinic reeked of something other than death, gritting his teeth at the sting of it in his nose. They burned much worse than the herbs in the mask, and Julian cursed again at the awful familiarity of the stench. Like a triage tent on the battlefield. He could think only of that body collector, decomposing in a corner. He pulled the curtain on the bed with a sharp exhalation, and turned pointedly toward the door.

He had to tell her family.

And if, after visiting with her widowed husband and motherless child, he neglected to eat thereafter, too sick with guilt to even think of caring for himself—and if visions of their disbelief carried with him, _haunted_ him, like flies around a corpse—and if he delved a bit too deeply into his work that day, writing until his hand cramped and spasmed with the stress of it—and if, when the night came, he found no rest, but only grim visions of a tar-black boat, come to shuttle his loved ones across the channel and into an inferno—

Well. It was only the fourth night in a row of such things. He would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Prakra being analogous to Fantasy India, and Milova being analogous to Fantasy China, as I’ve decided arbitrarily. (Milova is known to export spices, and we have a West Asian analog already. So.)
> 
> 2\. Lucio’s clan was described as the “Scourge of the South.” I’m just presuming, here, that that is also where Lucio did his warring prior to becoming Count, given his desire to prove his superiority to his mother. Also: it is mentioned that he targeted a town called Karnassos, which sounds distinctly Greek to me… and if Vesuvia bears some similarity to Fantasy Italy… and Real Greece is south of Real Italy… and I can do whatever I want…
> 
> 3\. This is entirely fanon, but I took some inspiration from the bubonic plague here, which the Red Plague seems close to. Body collectors were mostly lower-class citizens, who were paid well in exchange for a staggeringly high mortality rate. In Europe, they carted bodies to pits or rivers. In Vesuvia, they cart them to the Lazaret. (Credit to [this article](https://www.ranker.com/list/bubonic-plague-body-collector-facts/genevieve-carlton) for some great information!)


	2. Chapter 2

The next day dawned, and Julian was not fine.

He blinked blearily into the light of morning, registering it all at once as he looked up from a weathered parchment. “Oh. When did…?”

Brundle raised her head from the floor to look at him, then laid back down, whuffing in sleepy disapproval at his movement. He stood, folding the parchment into a sloppy square and tucking it in a drawer, soon to be forgotten. The clinic’s windows didn’t let in much light—there were too many taller buildings around—but it _definitely_ had not been this bright the last time he looked up. How long had he been working?

“What do you think, Brundle?” he asked. “Time to get moving?”

She whined at him disconsolately, and he stretched, wincing at the angry twinging and unearthly cracks of his back reassuming its proper shape. “_Ouch_. Might’ve been at it a bit too long, eh, girl?” With a sigh, he rubbed the tense muscles at the base of his spine. His body always protested being hunched in a chair for so long, and if the eye-strain headache was anything to go by, he’d been staring at the same paper for hours. No wonder his limbs ached.

Licking his lips, he glanced down blearily at the hound. “Perhaps coffee. Coffee, then food.”

Brundle whined once before going back to sleep.

The coffee happened, at least.

Two mugs later, Julian was puttering around the clinic again, fretting at a number of different tasks and completing none of them, like a nervous bird. The first mug had hit hard and fast, and made him feel vaguely nauseated—that, and fluttery. Like his heart was smaller than the rest of him, and struggling to compensate. A hummingbird’s heart. He felt, indeed, rather hummingbird-like. Presently, he was tying winter herbs into bundles with trembling hands, fumbling with the length of twine, then hanging them to dry on the herb rack. He had thus far almost fallen into the hutch twice while reaching over it; he had dropped a whole bundle of mint in the bowl he was using to disinfect his plague mask, necessitating that he wash it again; and he had, perhaps, spilled some of said disinfectant down his shirt. His coat was half-unbuttoned, he reeked of antiseptic, the sight of the empty back cot made him want to cry, and he had lost his gloves somewhere over the course of the night.

He was, in short, not doing well.

Like Julian, his clinic was _less_ than it ought to be: small for the amount of things that it was trying to hold, struggling to compensate. The room was longer than it was wide, with a door off the back leading into storage, and a door off the side leading to his tiny, neglected quarters. Overstuffed bookshelves lined the entrance, housing the leeches, with his desk shoved next to them in the corner, overflowing with jars and papers. The bulk of the floor, though, was dedicated to six cots, each with its own mismatched privacy curtain. Though there was little enough room to walk between them—one could reach from one cot to another—a large swathe of floor ran from the front of the room to the back, whence Julian was struggling to tie up peppermint. It didn’t help that the empty cot was presently touching his thigh, making it much harder to ignore.

The herb rack swung precariously with each of his attempts to wrangle it. Before him, the large wooden hutch was crammed between Julian, the storage room door, and the washbasin, and protested this fact with numerous loud creaks. Its shelves all but overflowed already with oils, tonics, bowls and bandages, not to mention Manat’s supplies; like the clinic and Julian, it was over-stressed. Must Julian crowd it now as well?

“Hold on, now—just a second—”

Before he could succeed in knocking a jar of woad off the shelf, Julian tied off the last bundle to the rack and stepped back with a triumphant; “Aha!”

The hutch was relieved.

Brundle, less content at the noise, whined at him from across the room.

“Oh, shush.” He waggled a hand at her. “The herbs are fine! Only slightly crooked.”

A sprig of mint dangled precariously from its bindings, arguing with his assessment. Julian paid it no mind. Stumbling slightly, he crossed the room back to his desk and sat down with a grunt, absently brushing a spot on his thigh. “Now where did I put that parchment?”

He frowned down at the mess of his desk and began to pick through it again, scratching his chin idly. Ordering would be tight this month, but Julian knew he had to eke out one more trip to the market, even if it meant foregoing dinner for a week or so. Maybe less. He thought. He hoped? If only he could find that list…

Like Julian, his clinic was a bit of a mess: disorganized, unkempt, and stumbling slightly towards functionality. But the thin, threadbare sheets on the cots were perfectly crisp and folded; the surfaces, though cluttered, were clean. He disinfected and washed it on a regular schedule. Like Julian, the clinic was chaotic, but it displayed a level of care and commitment to the health of his patients that Julian prided himself in. It was also a care, unfortunately, that he failed to extend to himself.

He frowned at several old order forms, and threw them away. He frowned again, then, at the receipts for said order forms before the building ache behind his eyes made him stop rummaging, his vision threatening to tunnel.

“It’s just the disinfectant, Brundle,” he murmured, rubbing his forehead. “Gives me a headache. That’s all.”

Brundle shuffled closer to him and laid her head on his foot, making an unhappy noise.

Julian found the parchment at long last. With clumsy fingers, he unfolded it, and hunched over his desk to squint down at it. It was an inventory sheet. Very important. He swallowed thickly as he filled in the list with herbs and infusions, wishing that it were about twice as long, scrawl becoming even less legible than normal as he wrote “Hawthom - 0” and “Lavenden - 2”1 with rapidly waning coherence. When his stomach started to roil, he poured yet another cup of coffee and chugged it. Then, when his back spasmed too painfully for him to ignore, he stood in the center of the clinic and stretched, sighing in exhaustion as he bent over nearly double towards his toes.

Chamomile oil should last another week. Valerian tincture was on the edge…

Damn, but he was tired. If he closed his eyes, he could almost fall asleep right there…

Someone knocked.

He blinked his eyes open, taking several seconds to register the sound—that it required his attention. Then, straightening back up, he shuffled to the door and opened it to the sight of a plump, gold-eyed, brown-skinned magician.

“Oh! It’s you,” he said, intelligently.

Manat tilted their head in greeting. “Yes. It’s me.”

They were almost painful to look at, clad in bright reds and oranges today. Like a flare of sunshine. The dreary gray of the Vesuvian winter stood no chance. Peering past them, Julian nodded once before allowing them in, glancing left and right down the cobbled street. “That’s right. I asked you to come back, didn’t I?”

“You did,” they agreed, taking a hesitant step inside. Their eyes lingered too long on him.

“Right, right, yes, well.” Julian shuffled them toward a cot. “Come on, then! Let’s get started. Medical things, and all that.”

He sat them on one of the marginally more comfortable beds, and their nose scrunched as they accepted the seat, eyes scanning the room. Julian twitched subtly, doing his best to ignore the stink of disinfectant. It was hard, when half of it came from the coat he was wearing; harder, still, when Manat’s gaze settled on _the cot_, taking in the closed curtain and darkening in understanding of why the clinic was now empty, and where the unpleasant smell had come from.

Julian poured his third coffee of the day—his twelfth, of the last forty-eight hours—and drank deeply from it. He plastered on a grin. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Pastry?”

“No, thanks,” they said, tucking their hands into a diamond-patterned shawl.

“Right. Well.” Julian chugged the rest of his coffee and forgot to ever finish his sentence, flitting away instead. Like a hummingbird.

He did not join them on a cot, or even in sitting at his desk. His eyes were perhaps somewhat wild and red-rimmed as he puttered around, unsure where to start, and possessed of the vague impression that he had been scared of Manat earlier. Given his lack of sleep, their strange interaction two days ago had taken on a hazy quality in his mind. He recalled shouting. The—the woman. Patient. And Manat had done—magic? He rubbed his hands together, startling at the lack of gloves to muffle the sensation, and stared into space. Why had he listened to them, exactly?

And whyever had they decided to come _back_?

He wasn’t sure he wanted a magician’s advice. It seemed like a dumb idea, didn’t it?

“Doctor Devorak?”

Trying to focus, he crossed to the back wall—pointedly not glancing at _the cot_—and splashed his face with cold water from the basin. He may also, perhaps, have slapped himself a little while hunched over it. Just a little. Subtly. Anything to wake himself up.

“…Doctor Devorak.”

Four days without sleep was a record in self-neglect, even for him. He may, perhaps, have been slightly delirious. Perhaps.

“_Julian_,” they said louder.

He startled, jolting upright. The magician was leaning forward on their cot, hands clasped in front of them, watching him with concern.

“Right, yes! Sorry. Manat, was it?” He eyed them frenetically, from their sensibly shorn hair to their practical work boots, and plastered on another grin, deciding already that they were far too intelligent. “I forgot to welcome you. To the clinic, that is! Formally! Welcome to the Southside Clinic and Surgeon’s Office, humble abode and workplace of yours truly.”

He gestured to the narrow cots and worn, scuffed wood floors with an air of grandiosity.

When Manat only continued to stare at him, he felt a flush rising.

“Um. And, I suppose, of you as well?” he offered.

“Thank you?” Their husky voice was low with confusion, one eyebrow raised. Far from what he wanted—they were still eyeing him up and down, and he did not want them looking too closely. He made another, more expansive gesture, waggling his eyebrows, as if all the clutter were a palace’s worth of gold and jewels. “Impressive, isn’t it?” He turned and gestured again, flourishing a little this time. “The luxurious cots? The impeccable woodwork? The vast, under-utilized floorspace?” He flicked a hanging herb, raining peppermint down on himself. “The marvels of modern medicine at our disposal?”

This finally drew a smile from them. Humoring him, they glanced around the room and nodded, exaggerating the motion.

“_Yes_. It’s very nice.”

“Thank you.” Julian bowed a bit. “Quite the gem, this little clinic. A paragon of organization. And so spacious, too!”

He kicked the cot two inches in front of him, then moved his feet six inches to the right and kicked the washbasin as well, leaning back with a broad, languid grin and knocking immediately against the wall. When Manat chuckled, he turned the motion into a broad fumble, sliding down the wall a bit and scrambling to regain his balance, ending in an awkward half-perch on the washbasin with his elbow in the water.

“Very spacious,” they said, and their eyes twinkled in—confusion, yes—but also amusement.

Just so long as they weren’t concerned about him. Smiling wearily, Julian looked from the cots to Manat and back. “It’s a good little clinic. I'm not really sure how you can help me, though, to be honest. I've never considered taking on a co-worker, much less a magical one.”

“No?”

“Er. No. I tend to discourage it, in fact.”

“I’m shocked,” they said, “after how you greeted me.”

He colored at the dry lilt to their voice, raising a hand to scratch his head. “Well—you came to me, after all—um. That is, have you any ideas of what, precisely, you wanted to do here? With magic?”

They shrugged. “Some. I thought I’d learn from you, to start. I’ve never studied medicine, but I’m sure we'll figure something out.”

“Right, yes, well.” Julian frowned up at the bundles of hanging mint. “Learn from me. I suppose.”

“You can use an extra set of hands. An apprentice. From there, I’ll figure out how to employ my own skills—that part comes naturally.”

Only half-listening, Julian nodded to himself and the mint. “Right. An apprentice. I should teach you the basic recipes first, and perhaps you can grind the herbs—”

“As I said, I am familiar with the properties of some plants,” they added.

_And_ they were familiar with the properties of some plants. In fact, Julian could always use a hand making poultices. Didn’t he always wish for another person to handle the grunt work?

Even if they only stuck with him for a week, it’d be nice to have someone else working the pestle.

The mint offered no helpful advice, as usual. Muttering to himself, Julian crossed to fetch a scrap of parchment before he forgot anything. Manat listened with more intent than it frankly deserved as he sighed and grumbled, bending down over his desk and scribbling a few sparse, rapid notes. How did Nazali used to teach him? They were always rather hands-on, weren’t they? He added “describe plague” and underlined it several times, blinking tiredly at the slashes of ink. Then he doodled a plague beetle—then he crossed it out, scowling. He added “sanitation!!!” to the list, along with “leeches?” and “mint bark poultice - first?” and paused, stumped, tapping the quill’s feather against his lips. It left a smudge on the underside of his nose.

“Doctor,” Manat interrupted. “I wanted to thank you for listening to me.”

Julian blinked up at them. “Pardon?”

“I’m grateful for this chance.” They shifted, fingers worrying at the corner of their shirt. “The only other person who—well,” they cut themself off. “Never mind. Suffice to say, trying to heal people on my own wasn’t working. I truly am eager to learn from you.”

“Um.”

What did he say to those earnest eyes?

“Y-You’re welcome?” he tried.

‘I hope you don’t grow sick of me too quickly’ was another possibility?

Manat shifted on the cot, the cheap wood creaking under their stout frame, and watched him. Julian felt suddenly warm under their scrutiny, dizzy for more reasons than just sleep deprivation.

“You should probably call me Julian. You know. If we’re working together.” For however long it lasted, he supposed.

Their nod was solemn, offset by a dimple at the corner of their mouth as they grinned. “Alright. It’s a pleasure, then, Julian.”

“L-Likewise.”

They held their hand out for a professional handshake. Bemused, Julian accepted, only to be taken aback by their firm grip and rough fingers. He forgot, again, that he was not wearing his gloves. It startled him such that he froze. Meanwhile, Manat maintained eye contact, eyebrows first raising, then pinching at whatever expression crossed his face. They pinched more the more time passed, until Julian realized that he had stopped moving for several seconds. He flushed, and took a step back the moment they released his hand, rubbing his fingers together anxiously.

“A pleasure to, uh, to meet you properly,” he stuttered. Quite forward, weren’t they? So intense.

Manat looked at their palm, then at him.

“Likewise,” they said, brow smoothing out to only a minor wrinkle. They straightened in their seat. “If you’re not sure where to start, will you tell me about what you do here? Maybe then I can figure out a way to assist you.”

“Oh! Of course.” Julian relaxed at the return to business. “It’s not much.”

“I’m sure that’s not true at all,” they said kindly.

“Well! Shows what you know!” He waved his list with a dramatic air and then paused, clearing his throat.

For such a small person, Manat had an imposing presence. It was softened, though, by their warm smile.

There wasn't much that he was proud to say aloud, unfortunately. In a voice that was slightly too loud, and with words that may have been a bit slurred, Julian explained what he was doing here, pacing the length of the floor and checking his list occasionally. He showed off the sheafs of notes crammed in his desk, and the jars of leeches on his bookshelves, and the hutch filled with medicines, and the bird-beaked plague mask which he’d forgotten to remove from the disinfectant, and thereafter he apologized for the smell. He brushed his fingers along the curtain dividing _the cot_, but did not open it; he explained his cleaning regimen after a victim died of the plague. In some detail, he discussed the plague's symptoms and the scourge of red beetles, waving the crossed-out doodle around for emphasis. He spared a cursory explanation for the Lazaret, shuddering as he did so; as vaguely as possible, he told Manat how the bodies were disposed of, and of the collectors. He explained his maddeningly long census of those who’d succumbed to the plague, and his strict notation of patients’ symptoms and reactions to treatment. When Brundle got underfoot, he introduced them to Brundle. Manat scratched her gently behind her long, floppy ears.

“Can’t dogs carry the plague?” they asked, and Julian promptly assured them that, no, they couldn’t. In fact, only humans seemed able to contract the plague, and only humans or those beetles seemed able to carry it. An odd one, that.

“Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” they asked, and Julian deflected with aplomb, tucking herbs into his mask for an impromptu demonstration of how they protected him from miasma. He never actually answered that question.

Julian was an excellent storyteller. An hour passed as he explained the goings-on of the clinic, figuring that Manat would absorb about half of it. Mostly, he tried to convey without saying so outright that his efforts were failing; that working with him was a bad idea. Perhaps, then, this apprenticeship would be a brief one. Thankfully, Manat looked away through most of his speech, only nodding occasionally, and interjecting even less. They seemed more interested in the cramped space of the clinic itself, tolerating his rambling with a patience that, quite frankly, Julian was unused to.

Were they listening, though? Did they _understand_?

“My efforts are failing,” Julian finally said. “Honestly, working with me is likely a bad idea.”

At that, they cut a sharp gaze to him. “There it is again. Why do you spend so much time trying to discourage me?”

Their jaw set alarmingly. Julian ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further as he fretted. “I only want you to have the full picture. This is—well, to be frank, it’s awful business.”

“It’s a _plague_. Of course dealing with it is hard. You think I’m a fool?”

“I—” He hesitated. “No. Of course not.”

“Then would you kindly stop attempting to scare me away? I’m getting sick of being told what to do.”

Their voice was heated. Perhaps even more heated than Julian deserved—perhaps more than he, alone, was capable of inciting. Julian didn’t notice this.

“I-I just—” He bit his lip, thoughts darting to and fro chaotically. It was important, though, that he try to parse them. “There’s a reason I keep a census of deaths, and that list is not a short one. I’m sorry, you’re right—and I’ll teach you, of course, I just—I only wanted to give you some warning.”

“That I will witness death if I work here.” Their gaze on him was heavy. Solemn.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I understand that,” they said. “I’m prepared to deal with it.”

They weren’t getting it.

Julian sighed.

“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he muttered. Was that so wrong?

Not dignifying that with a response, Manat rose to their feet and nodded at his hutch of medicines, adopting a no-nonsense tone. “That bottom shelf, full of bandages. Could you move those elsewhere?”

“I suppose I could, yes. Why?”

They nodded. “It’ll be easier for me to help if I have access to my things. If it’s alright, I might bring some over today. I’d like to start getting settled.”

It took a long moment for Julian to process that. When he did, he sputtered. “But you’ve only—we haven’t even started!”

They turned a shrewd gaze to him. “Do you not want me to keep my things here?”

“That’s—I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I won’t, if you’re not alright with it. I could carry them back and forth.” Tilting their head, they looked from him to the hutch and back. Their silence was expectant. When he didn’t reply, they flashed their teeth in a sharp grin. “Well, if you’ve no objections…”

They stooped by the hutch and swung open its wide doors, peering in critically at the clutter. So cramped was it that one of the doors butted against the far-back cot, refusing to open fully with the curtain in its way. The clinic wasn’t large enough for Julian’s attempts at privacy, but he did the best he could. As they tutted over how to rearrange things, Julian stared at _the cot_ and rubbed his aching temples, trying to ignore feeling of dread that crept over him.

“Sure, why not. Bring all your things over,” he muttered to himself. “Make yourself right at home.” He sighed, shaking his head. It would just be more work when they got sick of it and decided to leave. But who was he to argue? It was just his clinic.

Throwing his hands in the air dramatically, he shuffled off towards the door leading to his quarters, calling back over his shoulder:

“Don’t follow me! I’m fixing more coffee!”

He missed the thoughtful look they cast at his back.

— — —

Manat wasted no time in carving out a space for themself. True to their word, they left almost as soon as he emerged with his fourth cup, flashing a smile on their way out. Blearily, Julian drank his coffee and scratched Brundle’s ears. He was on his fifth when they came back with a red cloth bundle slung over their shoulder. They laid it out in the middle of his floor, in the long aisle between cots, and opened the thick fabric to reveal a dazzling array of crystals, herbs, and trinkets; small wooden sticks, colorful sachets, and intricately carved boxes with mysterious contents, none of which looked medicinal in the least. Julian crossed his arms, leaning heavily against the wall, and let the empty mug dangle from his fingers.

Manat glanced back at him once more for permission, and when he failed to protest, they opened the hutch and began unloading cotton gauze from it, clearing the lowest of the three shelves.

“Don’t put those on the floor,” was all he said. Manat paused in their methodical task to look up at him, and he shifted the barest amount. He nodded towards the roll they’d discarded. “First lesson: sanitation. Those must be kept clean, or they’ll cause infection in whatever wounds they touch. Don’t put them on the floor.”

Manat looked down, moved the roll in their hands to hover over the nearest cot, and looked at him for approval. When he nodded, they set it down and continued. He was pleased to note that he didn’t have to tell them to discard the soiled gauze; once they’d emptied the shelf, they took it automatically to the sink, submerging it in the basin of cold water. They looked up in time to catch the tail end of Julian’s smile.

“What should I do with these?” they asked.

“Mm. Good question. Here.” Julian crossed to take over for them, hiding his stumble; how difficult it was to leave his place at the wall. With great concentration, he washed the cloth, careful not to disturb the fine weave, then pulled it from the water and wrung it just a little, untwisting it with great care. Then, still damp, he transferred it to the largest of his stone medicine bowls; one large enough to fit his whole arm, or at least several rolls of gauze. He tilted it to show Manat.

“We’ll treat them with a distillation of tar.” He fetched a huge bottle from the floor, the brown glass labeled in his slanted scrawl: ‘Coal Tar Acid2.’ “Soak them with this, and it will kill any dirt or illness collected from the floor. Then they’ll be safe to apply to an open wound.”

“Is this what your mask is soaking in?” They nodded at the other large bowl.

“It, uh. It is. Yes.” He’d forgotten about that. He should probably remove it now. “I use this to clean, too, after—”

Manat eyed him curiously when he stopped. “After what?”

“Just. After.” Studiously, Julian avoided looking at _the cot_. He poured a generous mixture of the solution—Manat’s nose scrunched at the sickly sweet smell—and re-capped it, lowering it back to its spot by the hutch. Tossing the gauze around in it, he kept his gaze down, fearful of what his face might give away. Manat didn’t look at him, though. With a cautious sniff of the air, they glanced at the empty bed beside him and its wealth of unpleasant odors.

“I see,” they said finally, into the silence. “Thank you, doctor.”

They returned to their shelf, casting another long, lingering glance at the bowl of gauze. Without a word, they looped one of their bright orange shawls around their head, hiding their face but for a sliver of dark brown skin and the flash of gold eyes; then, they started sorting crystals by some metric that Julian couldn’t comprehend. Julian blushed as he watched, scratching his collar and shifting nervously while they tidied things away admirable efficiency. Their wares filled the shelf with a riot of color; nothing at all like Julian’s bottles and vials, seeming more extravagant by half than any of his herbs, or exotic powders, or even the leeches. He wondered for a moment how such things were meant to help—really, _crystals_?—but then rapidly shook his head, rejecting the thought so hard he made himself dizzy. No, better he didn’t know. Magic was too dangerous for him to contemplate. Leeches were safer.

Did Manat like leeches? Could he convince them to use a leech?

He thought so. They seemed practical that way. Practical, but also adventurous.

“Can I bring a couple of my books, too?”

Manat’s voice cut through his semi-delirious haze. Blinking at them where they were folding the now-empty cloth into a square, he said the first thing that came to mind:

“You can read?”

Their laugh was rich and hearty, seeming to come up from their gut, as they curled over and splayed a hand on their stomach. The sound took him by surprise.

“I don’t know, can I?” Their eyes twinkled like the dancing of flames, bright as they looked at him. “What do you think? Perhaps they’re picture books?”

Julian felt his face heating. “Well—I—”

“Maybe I want to bring some books so _you_ can read them to me?”

“It was a valid question! It’s not exactly common, here.” He huffed, putting on a great show of pouting, flushed all the way to his ears and slightly queasy from his building headache.

“No. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been able to read since I was small.” They tucked the folded cloth somewhere in their clothes. “I can’t afford many books, but the ones I do have would be useful, I think. Have you space for a couple more?”

Gesturing to the over-stuffed bookshelves on the far wall, they raised their eyebrows at him. Julian shrugged and nodded, as if to say, ‘why not?’ The motion made his head swim. Manat crossed to the shelves, and Julian surreptitiously buried his face in his hands, smothering a groan as soon as their back was turned. He rubbed his temples in vain for a moment before dropping his hands.

“All of these are yours?” they asked.

He opened his eyes again to see them regarding him curiously from within bright folds of cloth.

“Yes, of course.” Julian blinked. “Why wouldn't they be?” Did they think he was some kind of book thief?

“It's just unusual. Books are expensive.” They glanced at him for permission, then ran the fingers of one hand across the spines of a colorful Prakran novel—nearly as colorful as Manat themself. The fabric in front of their mouth stirred with an awed breath.

“Ah. Well, yes! Perhaps. But I enjoy them.” Julian smiled, puffing up with some effort, throwing on a theatrical air. “I've quite the collection, gathered from far and wide… ancient tomes from Prakra, worn sea-scrolls from Nevivon, hefty books from mysterious shops right here in our own Vesuvia! I've braved incredible dangers to gather them all and expand my knowledge of medicine.” It was only a slight embellishment. Grinning, Julian pulled out a particularly dusty old manuscript that he'd fought a kraken to obtain, lightly swaying. “Would you like to see one?”

Eyebrow raised, Manat glanced from him to the book, then back. Their expression pinched. Slowly, they nodded.

“Good, good. That’s good.” Julian failed to notice the concern. “This one here is very entertaining: _Naturalis Historia_3, volume five of seven, a series which purports to hold the entirety of ancient knowledge about the world. It's all very mistaken, of course…” He flipped open to the first page, blinking several times and squinting as the words swam before him. “Erm. Just one second…” He moved the book closer, until his nose was close to touching the pages. “I’m having some trouble… hang on.”

A hand landing on his shoulder startled him. He looked up again to find Manat, closer than before, their grip on him decidedly firm and, strangely, grounding.

“Doctor,” they said. “Are you unwell?”

His next blink seemed to take longer than usual. “I’m fine—I thought I told you to call me Julian?”

“Julian, then. Maybe you should sit down.” Despite their phrasing, it wasn’t a suggestion.

Julian nodded, forgetting to stop after the usual length of time. “Yes, I think that may be wise.”

They guided him to a chair, whereupon Julian promptly collapsed into it, a wave of dizziness overtaking him. He groaned, head falling to rest on a surface—his desk, was it? He couldn’t quite say—atop a pile of papers. Manat was now hovering outright, letting up on his shoulder for just a moment before changing their mind again, setting it back down. Julian barely felt it, overtaken by a fuzzy sort of tingling sensation. His stomach turned over, and he swallowed several times, blinking into the blurred space of the clinic.

“Are you alright?” Manat asked softly. “What’s wrong with you?”

Despite how the room was spinning, a grin fought its way onto Julian’s face. “More like what _isn’t_ wrong with me, eh? A regular mess, I am.”

Manat didn’t seem to like that response. Suddenly, they were crouching, frowning at him from not-far-enough away, the cloth gone from their face. “Are you sick?”

His eyes fluttered closed. “Maybe…”

Was he? It was possible. Perhaps, hah, the plague.

“What have you eaten lately?” Their voice was stern. Demanding. “Where have you gone?”

“Nothing…” He swallowed again, wincing at a spike of pain in his temples. He was well and truly queasy, now, mouth watering unpleasantly. “Just… ah, to visit patients, as usual… and the docks.”

But understanding was creeping across Manat’s face. “You forgot to eat?”

“That’s.” Julian licked his lips. “That’s not unusual?”

He blinked his eyes open, into theirs. They did not look pleased.

“When’s the last time you slept?” they asked bluntly.

Oh. No, he knew better than to answer that one. Mazelinka never liked the answer to that question.

Taking his silence as confirmation enough, Manat buried their head in their hands with a sigh, muttering something indistinct. They looked back up at him, running thick fingers through the short, tight curls of their hair. “Well, you can’t help anyone until you’ve helped yourself. Let’s get you up. Come on.”

Confused, he let Manat help him to his feet, leaning on them heavily when the room spun around him. “Where are we going?”

“Right here,” they said, and deposited his weight on a cot.

Julian sprawled inelegantly as soon as they let go of him. “Wh-What for?”

“_You_ are going to rest, and _I_ am going to get you something to eat.”

“Rest?” He frowned, blearily. “I did. That is, I tried to sleep. Didn’t work.”

“Try again, then.” It was, once again, not a suggestion.

Well. That sounded reasonable, he supposed.

Raising a hand to his throbbing head, Julian collapsed back against the wall, propped up by a single thin pillow. There was a soft ‘thunk’ as his head hit the wall. Manat eyed this situation for precisely three seconds before doing a circuit of the cots, rounding up all the cushions and bustling them around him and behind his back. Julian squawked in protest.

“The pillows—!”

“You should get comfortable,” they muttered. “I never sleep with less than three pillows, and they’re all double this size.”

Julian frowned indignantly at them. “It’s the middle of the day. I’m not even tired.”

He melted back into the cushions anyway, though, blinking at the fuzzy brown and orange shape of Manat as they once again eyed him up and down. Their close scrutiny made Julian twitch. He crossed his arms, feeling foolish, and tried not to sink too much into the actually very cozy cot, refusing to let them see how tired he was.

This was strange. He’d never been a patient in his own clinic before.

He didn’t like it, he decided.

“Do you want to take your jacket off?” they asked finally.

Julian considered, then shook his head.

Their mouth twitched. “Positive?”

“Yes,” he said. “Positive.” It reeked of disinfectant, which was unpleasant. But if he took it off, then they’d know that he was hiding a chest under there. Professional doctors weren’t allowed to have chests. Only lab coats. Or smocks. Nazali used to tell him off for his low-cut shirts all the time, and Manat had a _very_ Nazali-like energy.

Manat’s face did an interesting, but subtle dance, as if they were trying not to laugh, or sneeze. “Well. I’m going to get you something to eat. I’ll be back, alright?”

“This really isn’t necessary.”

“Consider it my first task as your apprentice.”

Their tone was no-nonsense. Wrapping the rich, shimmering orange shawl around their face again, they turned towards his door.

“Fine,” Julian mumbled, and sunk down into the cot as they prepared to leave. He wanted to enumerate the ways in which this _really_ wasn’t necessary, but his brain refused to string the words together. Maybe later. For now, his head hurt, and everything was fuzzy, and the six pillows were all very soft. It barely even bothered him that his feet were off the edge of the bed. In fact, if he just tucked up a little farther—almost into a ball—then it was no longer an issue.

Perfect.

His eyes slid closed.

The door shut quietly, so soft that he barely noticed it. He was aware of Brundle, whuffing softly from somewhere nearby.

Then, nothing.

— — —

Julian swam back into consciousness some time later. Snatches of dreams clung to him, but none so vivid or horrifying that he could remember them; the sense of unease they left was mild and slippery, forgotten soon upon waking. Instead, he was greeted by a nest of soft pillows, and the gentle plodding of footsteps somewhere nearby. The sound was comforting in a way that he was not used to. Thus, in his hazy state, he couldn’t quite make sense of it. He frowned up at the ceiling and crept incrementally closer to awareness—however long he’d slept, it was not long enough for the abuse he’d put his body through—and as he did, he wondered why the room seemed darker than it had been before.

He realized eventually that it was because someone had drawn the shades.

There came a soft rustling. Julian turned to face it with a noise of confusion. A plump, orangey-red figure was working at his hutch, and he blinked at them for several long moments, trying to resolve the sight into something more logical than a blurry pumpkin.

“Sorry if I woke you,” they said.

Their voice was low and no-nonsense, and struck a familiar chord.

Manat, he realized belatedly. Manat was back.

The thought seemed important, so Julian made an effort to stir, uncurling from the ball he’d tucked his long limbs into. He stretched out with a wide yawn, feet finding their way off the end of the cot again, and watched the magician through foggy eyes. Manat stared back a moment before turning back to their work with the hint of smile playing around their mouth. They’d brought another bundle in that red linen of theirs, and they were untying it on the hutch, jostling the contents with the distinct rustling of paper and a high, ceramic clink. Julian couldn’t quite figure out what the objects were or why they were making so much noise.

Why had Manat left, again?

He couldn’t remember. Instead, he propped his head on his hand, frowned softly, and asked the first question that come to mind.

“Do you have a last name?”

Manat paused.

“Excuse me?”

“I just wondered,” he muttered. He yawned again, and rubbed his aching temples. “Some people don’t, but usually I at least _know_. You know?”

They pulled the linen out from under its parcels with careful hands, folding it back into a small square. This, they stowed away somewhere within their scarves.

“We don’t really do that in Kemet4,” they finally said. “If you want to get technical, I suppose my full name would be ‘Manat Nephi Khalil Mostafa.’ They are the names of my father, and my father’s father, and my father’s father’s father.”

“Ah, I see.” Julian closed his eyes. With an effort, he shuffled back on his elbows, attempting to sit up. He slid back down twice before finding enough leverage to scoot backwards. “I had thought, maybe, you were from Prakra.”

“No. I’m afraid not. Nothing so glamorous.”

Their tone held a hint of disdain, and Julian hummed with more understanding than he actually possessed. “Not a fan of the big city, eh? The hustle and bustle? The opal sands?”

“It’s—fine.” They hesitated, as if thinking. “I can’t say that I care for it deeply, but Prakra is—fine.”

“Just fine?”

They looked down. “It’s a bit like Vesuvia in that respect. My people tend to be impoverished by war, more than we are participants in it. The war in the South was hard on us, and so we hold some mixed feelings toward the ‘big cities,’ as you call them. Prakra in particular.”

Julian winced a little, nodding, sitting up straighter. He had worked in several places struck hard by the war, or even destroyed by it—just as he had worked, for awhile, with the soldiers and mercenaries responsible for the strife. Prakra would’ve been closest to them. They would’ve known those soldiers.

“But—why are you in Vesuvia, then?”

“I have family here. An aunt. Family is important, supposedly.” There was some pointed thunking from the direction of the hutch, and Manat’s voice took on a forced casualness. “Anyway, why hold grudges when the war is long past? I don’t like to dwell on things.”

Julian opened his mouth, thought for a second, then closed it again tactfully, taking in the tense set of Manat’s shoulders. Even half-asleep, he knew a hint when he heard one. He had so many _questions_, though. Like—like what about their parents? Were they an orphan, perhaps due to the war? And, more importantly, why come to him? Why risk their life for Vesuvia if they apparently harbored a grudge against it? A dramatic frown pinched his face, and Julian scooted up the cot even further until he was fully upright. He then settled into the mound of pillows, head lolling backwards as he lapsed into deep thought—and his skull thudded, hard, against the wall.

He jerked forward with a hiss, the jolt making his headache pound like a war-drum.

“Alright over there?” Manat called.

“I’m fine.” He rubbed at the spot, ignoring the renewed swimming of his vision. The pain only made him frown more dramatically, shoving it aside as a minor annoyance, and he shifted again to get comfortable. “I—well. I hope Vesuvia has been kind to you, at least?”

“It has.” Their voice softened at the admission.

“Good. That’s good. There are some remarkable people here, aren’t they?”

A hint of a smile played around their mouth as they toyed with a small, rustling sachet, rubbing it between two fingers. “There are.”

Julian nodded. “I’m fond of them.” He gestured animatedly as he spoke, growing more lively. “I’ve been here awhile—settling in, you know, finding purveyors; this clinic didn’t just establish itself!—and yet the townsfolk continue to surprise me. Vesuvians are a tenacious lot. You’d think they would have succumbed to despair, but they continue to struggle on, despite their hardship. They continue to live their lives. To help each other.”

Manat’s smile faded. “Yes. They have to.”

“I—hm.” They turned their back to him, and Julian found himself regretting his choice of topic. “Well, yes. I suppose that’s true.”

There was barely any help for civilians, even though the plague was killing them by the hundreds. They _had_ to support each other. No one else would.

Manat dropped the silk sachet into a teapot, swirling it around, and Julian sagged back against the cushions, floundering. He struggled to find a new thread of conversation.

“Anyway,” he said. Nothing to do but forge on. “Names, eh? Shall we return to that? I need to know how to introduce you, if you’re to be my apprentice.”

Julian waited, raising his eyebrows, but Manat said nothing. They didn’t even turn. They unwrapped the bundle of paper with slow, methodical movements, producing a loud crinkling.

“Manat?” he tried.

Still nothing.

“My dear apprentice? My newest co-worker?”

They shook their head, chuckling so quietly that he could barely hear it.

As far as he was concerned, that was permission to continue. Julian broke out in a grin.

“What about… mmm, let’s see.” He tapped his chin. “’Manat Nephi’? Or, no. ’Manat Mostafa.’ That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

They huffed a small laugh, turning to look at him sideways. Something rueful flashed in their eyes before they turned away again. Either they ceded his point, or they were too busy to argue over the finer points of what they should be called; either way, they didn’t argue. Julian, again, took that as permission. His grin faded to a warmer smile, and he closed his eyes against the persistent throbbing of his headache, cementing the name in his mind.

“’Mostafa’ it is.”

“If it pleases you,” was all they said.

There was a final loud crinkle, then Manat hummed to themself in apparent pleasure, and Julian was hit by the heavenly scent of fresh-baked bread.

He hummed as well. “Smells good…”

“It does.” It sounded like they were smiling. “Speaking of kind Vesuvian. My favorite baker always has some of this ready for me.”

“S’nice. Smells like pumpkin.”

“That would be because it’s pumpkin bread.” They must have brought a knife, or else obtained one from somewhere, for he heard the distinct rasp of a blade sawing through crust. “What do you even eat, usually, Julian? I haven’t seen you at the market.”

“Mm?” He started. “Oh, I don’t know. It depends. Things from the tavern. Simple recipes…”

He didn’t say: ‘not much,’ although that was true as well. Food was scarce, lately, and not just because he preferred to spend money on medicinal herbs rather than flavorful ones. Truth be told, Julian was not much of a cook. He rubbed his forehead, reminiscing. “I can’t do much. Mazelinka used to make soup, and Lilinka made the best dumplings. I was an absolute wreck in the kitchen, so they typically exiled me, or made me watch from a chair.”

The gentle sawing stopped. “Those are your parents?”

“I—who? Mazelinka and Lilinka?” Julian started again, eyes snapping open. “Not—not really? But, um. Yes. I suppose? In a sense.”

“I’m sorry,” Manat murmured, “if it’s complicated—”

“No, it’s alright!” The regret was clear in their voice, and he rushed to reassure them. “It—well, it _is_, I suppose. But not in the way you’re thinking. Lilinka raised us, and Mazelinka was her adventurous, sea-faring lover. I suppose that makes them the closest thing we have to parents…”

Trailing off, Julian rolled over to watch as Manat took the lid off a small stone bowl, releasing more delectable smells into the air. They were looking at him, curiosity shining in their eyes—but, at his slow, sleepy blinking, and his unintentionally hangdog expression, they let it go, as Julian had done for them. Their mouth formed the word ‘we’, softly, but they did not voice the question. Julian didn’t even notice, his mind wandering out to sea, to Nevivon. Home.

Could he even call it home any more?

A frown creased Julian’s brow, his gaze falling to the floor. Thoughts of Mazelinka naturally drew him to thoughts of Pasha, and whenever he thought of Pasha, he was reminded what a coward he was. He had no right to reminisce so fondly. He’d like to be able to remember only the good times—the comfort of a bowl of borscht, the long soaks in the hot springs, his and Pasha’s sword-fighting adventures—but it was impossible when Julian himself had sabotaged that happiness. He abandoned them so long ago, now. When was the last time he talked to Mazelinka? When would he actually _send_ Pasha a letter, rather than just writing it and stowing it away?

He had failed in so many different ways, not least as a brother.

Guilt made him sink deeper into the cushions. He was oblivious to Manat, again, watching him, their face soft with something like understanding. The ornate bowl steamed comfortingly on the hutch, as did the matching teapot; Manat poured water from the latter into a spiral-patterned mug, then crossed to Julian and held it out, raising an eyebrow. It took a moment before Julian registered the object in front of him, and another before he realized he was meant to accept it.

He took it.

“Drink this before you eat,” Manat said, and turned back around.

The spirals felt rough under his fingers, etched deeply into the dark brown clay. Julian poked his nose into the foreign mug and blinked curiously, drawn from his thoughts. Steam wafted from its contents. “Coffee?” He peered down at the liquid and sniffed. It was brown, and clear, and smelled strongly of smoke. Too light to be coffee, though. “Tea?” Humming in contentment, he took a deep breath and exhaled on a sigh.

“Yes. One of my own blends.” There was a rueful note in Manat’s voice. “It was stolen by a local teahouse, but don’t let them fool you. My version is much better.”

When he looked up to thank them, the magician had already slipped away, quiet as a whisper, back to the hutch. His muttered “thank you” came out slightly confused.

“Where—where did you get these?” Julian gestured with the mug, encompassing both tea and bread. “From the market?”

“From home,” they said. “I made a quick trip while you were napping.”

“I wasn’t—” He wasn’t napping. “But—” Wait. Did they bring their own dishware?

“The mug?” he asked intelligently.

“Oh, that one? It’s my favorite.” Manat glanced back at him and winked, round cheeks scrunching with their smile, revealing the elusive dimple. “I thought it might make you feel better.”

“Oh.” Blinking in quiet acceptance, Julian took a slow sip of the tea. It was, as expected, deeply smoky, but not bitter. Sweeter than coffee, it had an earthy richness that reminded him of toasted hazelnuts. He took another, larger sip, eyelids drooping.

“Do you like it?” Manat asked. Their voice was soft and expectant.

Julian’s only reply was to hum, his body relaxing even further into the pillows.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes. Thank you.” His eyes slid closed again, and the mug threatened to spill when he settled it on his lap, nestling back into the pile of cushions. He steadied it at the last second, though. Its textured pattern was pleasantly warm, and he worried at it idly with a fingernail.

Manat huffed a laugh, and the noise-making continued.

This time, a rich and spicy aroma wafted over to him, along with a clinking as they stirred the soup—they even brought a _spoon_?—and crossed to him. Their boots thudded quietly on the hardwoods, stopping at a respectful distance. Julian opened his eyes to see Manat extending the bowl in invitation, both eyebrows raised this time, and they waited patiently for him to accept. The sight should have put him on edge; should have made him nervous, or anxious, or worried about how he would repay them. Instead, he accepted the bowl, oddly touched. They’d gone home to cook a meal for him. They’d brought their very own spoon.

They were very earnest. It was hard to turn them down.

Likewise, Julian wouldn’t have thought he was hungry—surely he was too ill to consider food?—but the tea soothed his roiling stomach just enough. The smell of cumin made his mouth water, and at the first bite of broth and vegetables, he found himself suddenly ravenous. He fished out the cubes of bread that Manat had steeped in it, savoring the warmth and mild sweetness; he ate the tiny lentils, and bits of potato, and drank the spiced broth in great, eager gulps. It didn’t last long. Any remnants left in the bottom of the bowl were scooped up, and the edges were thoroughly scraped, accompanied by the awful rasp of metal on ceramic

Then, when at last there was nothing left, he looked up for more.

Manat laughed. “Done already?”

His gaze remained fixed on the remnants of crusty bread, though, and their expression faltered. They passed the bread to him silently. He tore into it, and the furrow between their eyebrows deepened.

“Doctor?”

“Mm?”

“When did you last eat?”

He had to think about that one, swiping crumbs off the bedsheets and onto the floor. “Um. Perhaps yesterday?”

“You don’t know.” They didn’t sound impressed.

“…No,” he admitted, mouth half-full.

They shook their head. “I don’t understand.”

With the last of the bread shoved in his mouth, Julian gave a muffled, hesitant questioning noise.

“I don’t understand how you, a doctor, can be so _shit_ at taking care of yourself,” they elaborated, exasperated in a way that reminded him of Pasha. “Don’t you know that you have to treat yourself first? If you get sick, what good will you be to anyone? There’s only one of you.”

There was nothing to say to that, and so Julian said nothing.

Manat let it go, but they watched him as he slid back down under the sheets, and as he sighed wearily into a pillow, burying his face in its soft confines. He should, perhaps, consider their words—but he was too tired. The irony of that remained lost on him, sadly. His eyes slid closed of their own accord, aching even more than usual, as if he had angered them with his brief, mocking foray into sleep, and he heard Manat muttering to themselves.

“Idiot. What have I gotten myself into?”

Good question, he thought. He’d like to know, too.

They gave a soft tut, and he heard them turn away to start tidying the mess they’d made of his hutch. The rustling of paper was now subdued, though. As if they put effort into being quiet for his sake.

That was kind of them.

Letting the throbbing in his head and the warmth in his stomach dictate his actions, Julian curled back up into a ball, coherence rapidly fading. He listened to the magician moving about his clinic, making themself at home, and he drifted back into a heavy sleep.

— — —

When next he woke, the shadows in the clinic had grown long. The shades were again opened, but the light outside was starting to fade, dimming with the onset of twilight and casting everything in a gray pallor. Manat had traded the warmth of the sun for the soft glow of candles, lighting the squat pillars on Julian’s desk and bookshelves; however, the wall sconces were left alone. Again, in a thoughtful gesture, they had left the cots in relative darkness. Waking much quicker now, Julian frowned through the wavering light as he tried to find them. They were closer than expected. On the cot beside him, they had stolen a single pillow and propped themself against the wall. In one hand was a chamberstick, the candle burned down low, and in the other was a colorful Prakran book on herbalism, which they’d stolen from his shelves. Their face was barely visible, but he caught a glimpse of an engrossed expression before they heard him, looked up, and smiled.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Julian blinked, more alert than he recalled being several hours ago.

“Um.”

Not more eloquent, though, apparently.

Manat’s smile turned teasing, and they raised the chamberstick higher. The light of the candle flickered and danced in their eyes, making flames of them as well.

“Still exhausted?”

“Less,” Julian said, voice raspy from sleep. And it was true. Little rest as he’d gotten, it was still more than he was used to. He cleared his throat. “You’re, uh. You’re still here?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were alright.” They fidgeted with a page—not quite uncertain, but not quite sure, either—then slowly shut the book in their lap. “I’m sorry if I overstayed my welcome.”

Julian made a dismissive sound, flapping his hand. “Not to worry. You’re my apprentice, now, after all. Best get used to being here.”

With an expansive yawn, he sat up, stretching to his full height with a series of awful pops. Despite his protests that they should leave his coat on, Julian distantly recalled Manat helping him out of it sometime in the night. He was grateful for that now as he moved unhindered. His long, gangly limbs splayed in all manner of directions, and he swung his arms out wide, and then up high, with a satisfied groan. As Manat watched in mild horror, he cracked his neck in both directions, then leaned forward and stretched to touch his toes—quite a long distance, but one he was able to clear. His body protested every step of the way, though. Hours of desk-work made his joints creak like an old man, Julian wincing at the numerous, painful, and familiar twinges of discontent that made themselves known when he moved.

“Are you feeling any better?” Manat asked. It sounded rhetorical, and like they rather expected the answer to be ‘no.’

“Like I’ve been trampled by a herd of elephants, but—yes.” Julian ended his stretch after a few ungodly cracks from his spine, ignoring Manat’s wince. “Thank you.”

“For what? The soup?” Their eyes roved the length of his body, doubting his assessment of his welfare.

“No, not just for the soup.”

“Because it was no trouble.”

“No, I—”

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” they interrupted. “You still look pale. And bones aren’t supposed to make that noise.”

“I’m fine! I promise.” Julian managed a smile at their incredulous expression. Sea and stars above, though, his eyes still felt bruised—he rubbed at them gingerly, trying to think back. “Did I, um. Did I say anything foolish after you arrived?”

“You don’t remember.”

When he blinked his eyes open, Manat had set the candle aside in order to cross their arms. They straightened, and something about the angle of light made them look severe.

“To be honest, I only remember fragments of the past few days,” Julian admitted, blinking owlishly. “I remember babbling a lot, though. Does that sound right? I tend to ramble.”

“Not too much,” they deferred.

“No?”

“Just the right amount,” they confirmed.

Julian smiled, scratching the back of his head. “Well. That’s good.”

Their lips twitched in the beginnings of a mirroring smile, but the line of their shoulders remained tense, and Julian faltered. He remembered with sudden clarity how they’d helped him collapse onto a cot, and he had to look away, face reddening. They were—much too kind. After the display he put on—oh, it was coming back to him now. Oh, no.

Almost passing out? How _amateurish_.

“I—”

“Stop thinking,” they interrupted.

Julian looked up, chastened, but their expression was kind.

“I wanted to help. Does it matter that the first person I helped was you?”

“Um.”

It did. It most certainly did. He was unsure how to articulate that, though, and so he didn’t try.

With a great, rippling stretch, like a cat, and a great deal of creaking from the flimsy cot, Manat climbed to their feet and smoothed the sheets back down behind them. Julian’s blush deepened as he watched them, distracted by their warmth and their easy grace. The book, they returned with utmost care to its proper place on his bookshelf, and the chamberstick, they blew out and placed on his desk. It cast them quite suddenly into shadow.

Julian blinked through the dark. “Wait. You’re leaving?”

“I should, now that you’re up. It’s late.” Julian could just make them out in the waning light, hand worrying at the corner of one of their scarves, hinting at an anxiety that otherwise did not reflect in their posture. Julian saw it, though.

For once, he was coherent enough to muster an intelligent response. He scrambled to his feet and cleared his throat. “Tomorrow, then! You should visit again tomorrow. For your apprenticeship, that is. I’ll expect you bright and early—lots of, er, training to do! For things.”

They gave a quiet laugh, hand stilling. “Gladly, doctor.”

“I promise I’ll have things to actually teach you, then, rather than becoming an impromptu patient,” he added.

He caught a flash of white teeth as they smiled. “I don’t know. I learned a lot today.”

“Oh.” A flush crawled up his neck. “Is that right?”

“Yes. Quite a lot.”

“Oh.” The flush deepened. Julian looked down. “Well. Um. I’ll teach you actual _medicine_, then.”

“Sounds good, doctor.” They lingered for just a moment, scarf caught between two broad fingers, gaze fixed on him thoughtfully. Then they released their scarf and turned for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“…Yes. Farewell.”

Julian swallowed as they walked away. For a moment, silhouetted in the doorway, their red-and-gold form caught the fading sunlight and he saw them haloed like a miniature sun. His heart skipped a beat, and he cursed under his breath at how quickly they’d grown on him, the flush climbing from his neck all the way to his cheeks, into his hairline, until he knew his traitorous complexion had turned bright red. They closed the door with a soft click, and he locked it behind them, leaning his forehead against it with a sigh. He closed his eyes. Just _what_ had come over him?

There came the trotting of little paws behind him, making their lazy way out of the back room. Brundle sneezed at the lingering aroma of spices, and whined as she shuffled up to him, nudging against his leg in a transparent bid for dinner.

He bent down just enough to scratch behind her ears, leaving his forehead plastered to the door. “Alright, girl. We’ll get you fed in just a minute.”

Much like Manat had done for him.

The thought stuck, and Julian straightened abruptly, running a hand through his hair and biting his lip. He shouldn’t have let them cook for him—or carry him to bed—or help him at all, in fact. Really, he shouldn’t have almost collapsed in the first place. How foolish did that make him look? Julian chewed on his bottom lip as he went to fill Brundle’s bowl with grains, then he gave her a quick pat and left her to eat in the storage room. He barely knew this magician, and here they were _feeding_ him. And he’d let them? Without a word of protest? He hadn’t even paid them back! Julian double-checked that the door was locked and settled in at his desk, and then he propped his head in his hand and stared unblinkingly at the wall, other hand rubbing at his temples.

He couldn’t let this apprenticeship business go to his head. Next he’d be letting Manat into his quarters, or venting to them, or—well, any number of things. Then what?

He shook his head, pulling open a drawer of paperwork in a decisive bid to stop thinking about it.

When Brundle finished her dinner, the loud chomping dying down, she trotted back into the clinic proper and heaved a great, tired ‘whuff’. The act of both eating her food _and_ crossing the clinic floor was too much for the poor girl. Rightly exhausted, she paced a circle at Julian’s feet, then laid in her usual spot between them for a much-deserved nap. Julian gave her one final, sympathetic pat before returning to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Though this is an approximation of Julian’s scrawl, and is infinitely easier to read, please note that his “r” “n” and “m” are always nearly indistinguishable from one another. Likewise his “u” v” and “w.” And let’s not even get into his “b” d” “f” “h” and “l.”
> 
> 2\. Coal Tar Acid, aka Phenol, is the first widely used disinfectant. Now… is it likely that Julian, plague doctor, the equivalent of a doctor for the bubonic plague (aka the Black Death aka circa the 1400s), with his love of leeches and (probably) bloodletting… is it likely that this man knows shit about germ theory or the importance of sanitation?
> 
> No. Absolutely not.
> 
> However, I like to think of him as smart, and also this is a fantasy world. Maybe Prakra has a better idea of how these things work. Anyway, the boy almost discovered blood transfusions. Phenol wasn’t invented until the 1900s, but there are magic elevators, and Lucio has a mechanical arm. Let the boy have his disinfectant. He deserves it.
> 
> 3\. Naturalis Historia, a famous account of the world by the ancient Greek superstar, Pliny the Elder, contains such gems as: “the head of a shrew, burnt to ashes and ground to a powder with antimony, is an excellent remedy for watery eyes” and “they say that mint will cure diseases affecting the spleen, provided that the patient tastes it in the garden, straight from the plant without plucking it, on nine consecutive days. As he chews it, he should declare that he is treating his spleen.” Truly iconic.
> 
> 4\. A non-canon region near Prakra, which I declare to be Fantasy Egypt. This makes our geography thus:
> 
> Vesuvia: Fantasy Italy   
Karnassos: Fantasy Greece   
Prakra: Fantasy India   
Nevivon: Fantasy Russia   
Milova: Fantasy China   
Nopal: Fantasy Mexico   
Kemet: Fantasy Egypt


	3. Chapter 3

“Stop—rgh—_fighting_!”

The man wailed and thrashed beneath Julian’s weight, tangling both their legs in the sheets. Even with illness weakening him, Julian’s latest patient was a dockworker; it took all of his strength simply to pin the man. He had a chest like a barrel, and arms like the masts of a brigandine. With an effort, Julian trapped his ankles to keep him from kicking, and all the while he screamed bloody murder.

“Calm down, please, just—”

The screaming intensified.

“—oh, what’s the use. You can’t even—_ow_—hear me!”

Julian bore his full weight down and resisted the urge to shout, or possibly cry, as the man headbutted him.

It wasn’t even noon, and Julian was up to his neck in plague victims. He’d never had so many patients come in all at once—all from the same family, too: father, daughter, grandmother, and two sons—and he had no idea how to handle it. The situation was unprecedented. This was why he did house-calls. In typical fashion, though, the dockworker and his kin did not consider seeking help until  _all of them were dying_ , and now look at the mess they were in? From the back cot, a small voice gave a pathetic mewl, while below Julian, the father fought with all the strength and violence of the thrashing sea. But, more importantly, there were five human beings suffering right in front of him, in various stages of the plague—two of them were early on, barely coughing, while the other three would not last another day—and he was stuck wrestling their bloody  _father_ !

Damn the stubbornness of Vesuvians.

“I can help,” the son chimed in, all of fourteen and as thin as a reed. “Let me help hold him down.”

“No,” Julian growled, at the same time the grandmother said, “Ellis—”

But their protests were in vain. Ellis tried to reach into the tussle, and it startled the father into bucking.

“Get back!” Julian snapped.

The teenager yelped in fear, jumping back just in time to avoid the wild swing as his father broke free enough to lash out at him.

“Easy, now. That’s your son—” Julian struggled to bear down as the man flailed towards the new intruder, not recognizing the face or voice of even his own child. His eyes were glazed over, unseeing, red bleeding into his sclera, and he continued to scream. “Move away from him!

The boy scrambled away obediently as Julian growled with the effort of evading the father’s blows. He struggled to regain control, barely able to see through the skewed lenses of his mask. He’d been hit in the face twice already, sending both the mask and his hair in all directions. And—sure enough—a swinging fist caught him in the ear once again, making his head spin and his teeth rattle in his skull. A high-pitched ringing filled his skull. Julian finally just dropped flat, face turned to the side to protect the mask from harm as he wrestled the man’s burly arm back down, gloves slipping more than once on sweat-slicked skin. It put his wailing directly in Julian’s ear.

“Dad?” The son’s voice wavered with fear and uncertainty.

“You can’t help.” Julian spared no sympathy. He couldn’t. “You’ll only get hurt. Just—stay out of the way.”

“Come, now, Ellis,” his grandmother said. “Come over here with me.”

Julian could barely hear her. Ellis backed into the far corner of the room, pale and trembling, coaxed by the old woman’s gentle voice. She may have wrapped an arm around him—Julian couldn’t quite see. With a curse, he bore down on the father and slid his grip down to his wrists, barely able to encircle them with his own, not inconsiderable fingers. “Sea and stars, you are an absolute  _colossus_ , aren’t you?” He could hardly believe that this brute was on death’s door. Just how strong was he normally?

“Let me try,” the grandmother said, and cleared her throat. “Ahem. Patrick! Listen to me, young man. There’s no need for this sort of behavior, do you hear me? Let the good doctor help.”

Julian winced at a particularly strong tug. “He cannot, in fact, hear you, madam.”

Despite his admonishment, the grandmother’s stern voice wavered only slightly. “I demand that you calm down, Patrick. You’re scaring the children.”

Julian couldn’t spare the time to look at her, shifting his grip again as Patrick tried to twist his upper body out from under his weight. “madam—please, I must insist—”

“I know, I know.”

She fell silent.

A high-pitched whine came from the back cot. Julian winced at the misery of the youngest member of the family: the nine-year-old daughter.

“madam?” he suggested.

“Right you are, child.” She audibly perked up. “I’ll tend to Aya.”

Quietly, the grandmother crossed the room to her granddaughter’s side. There was little enough that she could do for her pain, but just her presence, the touch of a hand, soothed the little girl’s whimpers. Calling her grandson to come join her, the old woman whispered low instructions with an authority that would have rivaled even Lilinka for clout, and Julian heard the boy’s muttered agreement.

Good. Keep him out of the way.

Julian allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before Patrick almost kneed him in the groin.

“Damn it, _stop_!” he complained, pinning the man again, fully tired of it.

Patrick wasn’t even hurting. No, he was swamped under as many analgesics as Julian could give him, reeking of herbs and menthol. He was simply in a fit of delirium, trapped in some vivid nightmare, and presumably fighting for his life. He’d already clawed gouges in his own chest before Julian could get to him. The wounds bled sluggishly now, and the man—the father— _Patrick_ —cried out with all the terror of the dying. If only he knew how right he was. Julian had to help him, somehow—had to help the little girl, his  _daughter_ . His body trembled with strain as he tilted his head this way and that, trying to shift the lenses of the mask enough to see the bowl he’d abandoned. If he could somehow get to it, to the hutch—if he could just subdue Patrick, even if only for a moment—if he could break free—

He didn’t register the sound of the door opening, for it was then that Patrick surged and yelled, kicking a leg free of Julian’s only to tangle it in the sheet instead. The whole motion jerked them precariously sideways, almost toppling Julian off the cot.

“Dad!”

“Oh, dear. Patrick—”

Julian barely caught himself. He gave a low wheeze of exertion as he clung on with one hand, digging it as deep as he could into the flimsy mattress. Slowly, though, his gloved fingers began to slide. Patrick thrashed, and the sheet  _ripped_ with the force Julian was exerting upon it. His hold slipped. In a panic, he managed to hook his leg around Patrick’s kicking one, and he gave a great bodily heave that pulled them back onto the bed—but the sheet came with them, tangling between their legs and around Julian’s waist, trapping him even more in this ridiculous wrestling match. The daughter cried out weakly, Patrick sobbed in terror, and Julian closed his eyes in silent prayer, arms quaking.

He tried to tug his legs free. He couldn’t.

Damn.  _Damn_ .

This couldn’t continue. He was loathe to resort to violence, but the only other choice was—

“Doctor?”

Their voice was low and shocked.

Manat.

“Oh, thank the sea and stars.” Julian could have wept in relief. He did weep. He tossed his head, but could not see the magician; only their shadow lingering by the door.

“How can I help?” The shadow started forward. “Should I—”

“Don’t—the mask!”

They stopped.

He heaved a shaking breath, blinking tears from his eyes. “Get—get the mask. There’s one on the bookshelf.”

They needed protection from the miasma. A scarf over the mouth was not enough, especially with five plague victims present. He had brought another mask out from the store room for them to have access to, even loading it in advance with rose petals, and he was glad now for the foresight. Manat faltered only briefly before jumping to the shelf by the door, grabbing the mask and tugging its straps on over their head. Even as they tucked its protective cowl into their many scarves, they were already hurrying to his side.

“No, stop. I can handle him, just—” Julian tossed his head, distracted as Patrick bucked again. “The hutch. Get a bowl. Quickly.”

Manat obeyed.

Although he spared no energy for kindness, Manat did not falter as he explained how to mix a pain-relieving poultice. His instructions were terse, delivered through gritted teeth. Their responses were deft, sure. They asked no questions, and the sounds of their work were encouragingly fast, undercut only by the occasional quiet mutter.

“I’m done,” they finally called. “Now what?”

“Oil of mint, just a drop. Add the willowbark tincture until it’s pasty. That’s it.”

“Got it.”

Julian was just about to tell them to apply it to a bandage when Patrick twisted, crying out in another burst of terror. He threw all his weight to the side, body striving against its cage of sheets—straining for something that only he could see. Julian’s hand slipped, and then he was reeling as Patrick’s solid arm slammed into him, knocking his teeth together with a loud  _clack_ that Julian felt all the way to his toes. It was like being hit in the head with an oar. Patrick yelled, reaching, flailing in fear, his eyes wide and terrified, his hand slapping against Julian’s face and neck, batting at his ears and jostling the mask even further. While Julian struggled to regain control—to even  _hold on_ —Patrick clawed at him and screamed, fingers slipping under the mask’s gorget 1 to dig furrows in Julian’s neck. By the sting, they were deep enough to draw blood.

“_Patrick_!” the grandmother cried.

His fingers came dangerously close to the mask’s beak, to dragging the protection off—to leaving Julian exposed.

“Manat—” He turned his head, both to avoid Patrick and in an effort to see through the skewed lenses, heart thudding wildly. “Manat, please—”

“I’m here,” they said, right beside him. Julian’s heart skipped a beat. He only saw a flash of bright fabric, but then there was another hand dragging Patrick away from him, dark and strong and thick-fingered and the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. With surprising strength, Manat shoved the man back into the mattress and pressed a blue-glowing palm into his forehead. Julian exhaled shakily, his job made suddenly trivial. He dared to let go just long enough to fix his mask, then he shifted and pinned Patrick back down by the forearms, bearing his full weight over the larger, heavier form with refreshing ease. Under Manat’s hand, the man had stopped fighting.

“That spell?” he ventured. Blood trickled down his neck, tickling all the way to his collar, and his vision swam alarmingly.

“Yes. A calming spell, like I used on that woman. I can keep him down for hours this way.”

Julian shook his head, which proved to be a bad idea. The world continued rotating afterwards. He swallowed thickly. “The, um. The poultice?”

“Here.” Manat raised their other hand, voice solemn, face hidden.

They found the bandages, at least, even without his instruction. Good. The mixture wasn’t properly blended—too chunky—but it was good enough. It would have to do.

“Can you move enough for me to apply it to him?” they asked.

“No. It’s not for him.” Julian tightened his grasp, bracing himself. “The girl, on the far back cot. Apply it to her chest.”

Manat stared at him.

Their mask’s white beak tilted down, towards the poultice. Then it tilted back up, towards the child in the corner. She was staggeringly frail. Her brother held her hand, and her grandmother hovered, close to touching, even as her wise eyes remained fixed on Julian. Each breath that escaped the girl trailed off into a whine, and each inhalation rasped like sandpaper, battling the miasma in her lungs. At her age, it hadn’t taken long for the plague to devastate her humoral system.

“She’s hurting,” Julian said. “He’s not. _Go_.”

With a decisive nod, Manat stilled their magic and rushed into action. Julian’s struggle continued at once, and he gasped at how much  _effort_ Patrick threw at him, rearing up with what seemed like all his remaining strength. The fight was going out of him, but it was going out of Julian even faster; struggling to hold the man still, Julian heard whispering from the boy and grandmother, but he couldn’t comprehend their words. He was too tired. He watched as best he could through the restrictive lenses while Manat went to the back corner, and saw their cool composure falter. The girl’s family stepped aside. Manat applied the poultice, smoothing the wet clump of cloth and herbs directly over the girl’s lungs. Then, without asking, they pressed a hand blue with magic to her forehead, gently brushing her red curls aside to reveal the deathly pallor of her face.

“Oh, sweet thing,” they murmured.

Julian shuddered, and felt Patrick quaking with identical fatigue. The man no longer yelled or flailed in blind violence. Instead, he pulled steadily against Julian’s hold with the last of his strength. His red-streaked eyes fixed on the ceiling, sightless, and he gave a low, plaintive whine like an animal. Julian closed his own eyes in response and buckled down, pinning Patrick with his whole body.

Aided by both magic and and the medicine that Julian had perfected, the girl’s keening moans stopped. Her labored, rasping breaths began to ease.

Julian counted the seconds. Counted her breaths. Half a minute, he thought, before she’d fall asleep.

Thirty seconds.

He mouthed the numbers to himself, eyes still closed.

Then, and only then, with the child out of pain, did he say; “The tonic.”

He jerked his chin half-heartedly towards the hutch. A bowl lay half-mixed on the middle shelf, abandoned when Patrick had started to thrash. Manat looked up at him, brushed the girl’s forehead once more, and stood from their careful crouch to fetch it.

“The valerian extract. Two drops,” Julian recited by rote. “Five drops of chamomile oil…”

He guided them with his eyes closed, still fighting the occasional stubborn jerk and twist of the body below him. Luckily, there were precious few ingredients that it needed; he’d been close to finishing the soporific when Patrick’s fit began. Manat mixed it and returned to his side. Julian and Patrick both lay near-motionless, by then. With medicine in one hand, Manat reached out with the other to brush Patrick’s forehead. They forced him flat against the mattress, and the flame-blue glow of their hand stilled him so that, with nary a fuss, he accepted the tonic. He drank.

Julian flinched at the warmth of magic so near to him, but he did not dare move away. Patrick sighed, long and low. Then, with a final slump, he slept.

If Julian were not so exhausted, he would have been impressed. As it was, he counted out another ten seconds, then collapsed atop Patrick and simply breathed.

“Are you alright?” Manat asked.

They reached to help him, but Julian pulled away with an extended groan. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“That’s what you said yesterday before you fainted.” Thankfully, though, they let him be.

His neck stung, his ears rung, and his muscles trembled with exhaustion. His arms and legs ached as if he’d climbed Mt. Karnassos, and his heart beat a rapid rhythm. But Julian still had work to do, and so he forced himself up—or, well. He tried to. The moment he tried to move, every muscle in his body seized, and he froze with a sharp sound of pain. Manat twitched, but held themself back from helping, for which Julian was grateful. He did his best to ignore their gaze. Several long seconds passed before he was able to unlock his joints, disentangling himself from the dockworker and the prison of sheets they’d created. His legs almost buckled when he put weight on them, but he forced himself upright with a grimace and stretched the tense muscles of his back and shoulders, glaring down at Patrick one final time.

He resisted the urge to spit. It wasn’t professional.

Manat was hovering, prepared to catch him if his legs collapsed. Julian turned his glare on them.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, grumbling, and hobbled to grab a roll of bandages from the back room, stepping carefully around Brundle.

Manat tilted their head in clear skepticism. “What about those scratches?”

“They’re shallow.” Julian reached up to brush his collar, other hand pausing over the wall of shelves. “I’ll heal.”

“Should we be worried, though? Since he had the plague?”

“No. No, it’s alright. The plague doesn’t live under his fingernails, after all.”

Julian hesitated at the storage room door, but forced himself not to stumble on his way back to Patrick. Brundle gave a sleepy whine as he passed her by. With the fading of his fight-or-flight response, his body was starting to go cold. Only long practice kept his hands from shaking as he cleaned, then bandaged Patrick’s self-inflicted scratches, taking great care with the deep, painful-looking furrows. Even after fighting with the man, even after being punched and kicked and headbutted, Julian was a doctor. He did not tend to him any differently for it. He tied off the bandages around Patrick’s chest, and fetched the oil of peppermint, placing a drop over the wound site to promote healing, and over the bruises on his wrists from where Julian’s grip did damage. Then he did the same to his own, shallower wounds, lifting the mask’s gorget gingerly.

In bandaging himself, his hands did shake. He prayed that Manat didn’t notice.

In truth—Julian winced at the sting of the phenol, but applied more anyway—in truth, whatever he said, the fear of contagion never left. He slathered the wound generously with peppermint oil, ignoring how it burned, then he wrapped the bandage as quick as he could and dropped the cowl back over it, pressing a hand atop the spot as if to soothe. Leaving even that fragment of skin exposed made him vulnerable. His heart still raced in panic every time he was hurt. After all, what if this was the time that did it? What if all the other occasions were just flukes? This was far from the first time he’d been attacked by a patient—and he wasn’t dead yet, but—even so. That meant precious little. He worried with each new scratch, and his mind ran through his census of the dead, listing them off like evidence against him. If one needed a reminder of man’s mortality, they need look no farther than the patients he’d failed.

Julian still lived. But only for now.

He glanced at the little girl, whose red curls reminded him so much of Pasha, and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

There were more important matters, though. Despite that his legs still shook, Julian shoved his feelings aside, turning to the two still-conscious family members with a practiced sort of composure that belied the rapid beating of his heart.

“There, now, see?” Dolores was saying softly. “They’ve sorted it out, Ellis. Don’t fret, now. Don’t fret…”

The grandmother had seated herself on a cot, and her whole body slumped. Strong-willed as she was, this much excitement clearly took a toll on the old woman; she was approaching ninety, and slight. Her bones were as brittle as a bird’s. Still, she mustered some strength for her grandson. Ellis had his face turned into her chest, and Julian could only assume that he was crying, as his shoulders trembled minutely with each breath. Dolores stroked the brown rat’s nest of his hair, her voice remaining admirably calm as she muttered reassurances, eyes closed. Even Julian felt inclined to believe her when she said that it would be alright.

Manat, meanwhile, spoke logic to soothe his fears.

“Your name is Ellis, right?” they asked.

They had left Julian to his work, and now stooped ever-so-slightly in front of the boy. Short as they were, it was just enough to match his height.

“I’m Manat. Manat Mostafa. I’m the doctor’s apprentice. Do you think you could look at me?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Julian’s face as the boy complied. His death-grip on Dolores lessened, and he sniffled, looking up into the plague mask’s red eyes. With their head tilted and a bright yellow scarf draped atop their head, Manat made the mask look infinitely less imposing—an impressive feat, Julian thought, for one who usually gave the opposite impression. Even the lines of their body seemed softer than usual.

“We’ll take good care of your family, Ellis. Don’t worry. The doctor is very talented, and he has a lot of practice.”

Ellis asked something, too low for Julian too hear.

Manat nodded in response. “We’ll do our best. Doctor Devorak has already given her something for the pain.”

Another question.

Manat hesitated.

“She’ll be fine, dear heart,” Dolores said. “Not to worry.”

After a tense moment, Manat gave a slow, uncertain nod. “We’ll do our best,” they repeated, unable to agree with Dolores’ kind lie.

“Her name is Aya. My sister.” Ellis’ voice was barely above a whisper, and cracked on the final syllable. “She just turned nine.”

Manat reached out a hand, and when Ellis didn’t withdraw, they pressed it to his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

His bottom lip quivered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” they said. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but you’re very brave. You do your family proud.”

Julian let them converse for a moment longer before interrupting, rubbing idly at his neck.

“Manat. Do you remember the instructions for that tonic?”

They, and Ellis, blinked up at him.

“Partly.” They tilted their head back to center and straightened. “You’ll need to walk me through it again.”

Julian nodded. “Make two more. I’d like to oversee this time.”

Manat mirrored his nod, but did not move to obey the instruction. They remained stooped at Dolores’ side, eyes fixed slightly below his face. Julian’s hand fell from his neck once he realized why, and he winced. Damn them—they were observant. He couldn’t see their expression any more than they could see his, but he could feel their gold eyes on him, lingering on spot he’d bandaged, their mask minutely tilting as they raked him up and down with what he  _knew_ to be a look of concern. Defiant, he kept his hands at his sides and cleared his throat.

“Well? Go on.”

They finally turned away, but not without giving a skeptical hum. Julian allowed himself to slump as they returned to the hutch. He was aware of Ellis glaring at him suspiciously. He ignored it.

“We’ll do them one at a time. Start with a one-ounce vial of water—that’s the base of it.” Manat obeyed. “Then a single droplet of the nightshade decoction. Just one! Otherwise it’s poisonous.”

Watching them more closely this time, Julian used this as a chance to take full stock of Manat’s skills. Now that time was no longer of the essence, they located a scrap of parchment to take notes on the process, scrawling from right to left in a script that Julian couldn’t read. It helped, too, that he could give more than desperate, half-shouted instructions; he recited the properties of willowbark and valerian, and the difference between an infusion, a decoction, a tincture, and an oil 2 . He started to explain Apothecaries’ weights and measures, only for Manat to inform him that they already were familiar with them, to Julian’s surprise and satisfaction. Ellis tuned in to the conversation for a good minute—even Dolores, whose eyes were drooping, seemed curious—but they both finally lost interest, somewhere in the middle of Julian’s explanation of the shelf life of essential oils, and why medical-grade peppermint oil was  _not_ the same as whatever dross Manat was likely used to.

“I brewed most of these before the winter to try and make my supply last. The goal is not to buy any herbs after first frost, when they become more expensive. That, er. That doesn’t always work out.”

Manat nodded along with every word, even when Julian stumbled over a name or a phrase, his body growing increasingly heavy. They were precise, and took careful measure of each ingredient. Their hands moved confidently, learning the layout of the hutch in record time. It was as they’d promised: they were a quick study, and a talented extra set of hands

Content with their work, Julian leaned against the back wall in deference to his aching muscles, sagging against it. He even granted them the trust of closing his eyes. Their body language exuded ease—a kind of professional grace that Julian both respected and envied—and he wondered at it. It had taken him ages to learn such composure.

How did they do it?

He was jealous.

“Doctor?” Manat asked.

Realizing that he’d stopped talking, Julian blinked back into focus. “Right. Sorry. Um, just five drops of the chamomile. It should come to about nine drams.”

They turned back to their work without so much as a nod, and Julian frowned as he realized that they’d come to expect these small bouts of inattention from him. Julian wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he let it go to watch them measure the last few drops.

“Done,” they said, holding the vial up to the sunlight.

With a grunt, Julian shoved off of the wall. “Well done. Now for the moment of truth.” He took the tonic to inspect. “Any questions?”

“No. I think I’ve got it.”

“Good, good.” Tilting the vial critically, Julian observed the liquid from all angles. “I saw you taking notes. Good practice, that. I used to have a book of recipes, actually, which might come in handy. I wonder if it’s still around?”

Manat raised their eyebrows. “You mean to say you do all of these by memory?

“At this point? For these?” Julian shrugged. “Yes, mostly. I have notes around here somewhere, but most of these are treatments that I’ve been using for years. They’re not meant to cure the plague. I rarely need to tweak the pharmacology of, say, a sleeping tonic, for example.” The liquid was a nice, pale yellow-green color, and filled the glass to precisely nine drams. Nice opacity. It liquid wasn’t too murky, or too clear; nor too dark, which would indicate too little water.

“Actually?” he said. “Manat? This looks perfect. Well done.”

They stood a bit straighter, hand falling from where it had been fretting at their sleeve. “Really? Thank you.”

He mustered a tired smile—not that they could see it, he realized. “Could you do the second one on your own?”

“Yes.”

He waved a hand. “Be my guest, then.”

They took the symbol of trust for what it was, and gave a pleased hum as they started in on the second dose. Their work was accompanied by frequent glances at their notes, hands moving slowly to make sure they got it exactly right.

When Julian turned to Dolores again, to finally deal with her and Ellis, he found her already laying down. The relief that hit him was disproportionate to the sight. In his experience, there was nothing worse than trying to argue a stubborn grandmother into bed. Lilinka always refused to rest, even when she was ill— _especially_ when she was ill—but Dolores seemed right at the edge of exhaustion. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had deepened, and her brown eyes had lost some of their shine. Tucked under a heavy blanket that she’d dug up somewhere, she whispered to her grandson, and nudged him gently towards the empty cots. In so doing, she solved another of Julian’s problems.

Ellis huffed, clearly reluctant to leave the comfort of her side, but he shuffled off regardless. Claiming one of the two remaining beds, the boy nestled into it and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. He gazed sullenly at the back wall, and drew the sheet around him like a cocoon, making a cave of it so that only his face was visible. Eyes a shade darker than his grandmother’s scorched the woodwork. He radiated the frustrated distress of a teenager; a child old enough to understand that he should be afraid, but too young to express that fear productively.

He reminded Julian of himself at that age.

Looking between them, Julian went to Dolores first.

“Thank you, madam, for helping to wrangle your grandson.” When she acknowledged him, he bowed his head in deference, clasping his hands in front of him with slight flair. “You’re more helpful than you know. I was not looking forward to having to fight him into a cot.”

Startled, she laughed. “Like you did my Patrick, you mean?

“Exactly. One wrestling match is enough for today, I think. Wouldn’t you agree?” He gestured toward the bed. “May I help you sit up for a moment? With all the excitement, don’t think that I forgot to tend to _you_, madam.”

“I would never.” The lines of stress around her eyes lightened with her smile. “And I suppose I could manage it. With help.”

Even her voice sounded worn. It tugged at his heartstrings in a particular way—one that he refused to examine too closely. Julian took great care in helping her shuffle up, then back, to settle against the wall. He placed his hands purposefully, so as not to chafe her thin skin with his gloves. He supported her back and shoulders. The transition still made her wince, though, and Julian frowned at the clear symptom of pain; he grabbed another pillow to shove behind her, tutting as he maneuvered her into a different position.

“How’s that? Better?”

“It’ll do.” Despite her best efforts to sound neutral, her voice came out strained.

Julian’s frown deepened, and he ducked to check under the cots for a third pillow. There was a crate of them down there somewhere. “Do your joints ache, madam?”

“Oh, stop calling me that, will you? I’m not the bloody Countess.”

He blinked up at her.

“It’s ‘Dolores Alfera,’” she corrected. “Not ‘madam.’ Call me Dolores, wouldn’t you?”

Shaking his head, Julian huffed a laugh. “Ms. Alfera, then.” That was all the concession he’d make. “Tell me, do your joints ache?”

She eyed him askance, but accepted the compromise. “Yes, doctor. They do. Like most crones my age, you could write a symphony with all the creaks and cracks my knees make.”

Julian nodded. He knew the feeling all too well.

“They hurt just the same as they always have, though, if that’s what you’re asking. Not any more than usual.”

“It is. Thank you.” He rose from the floor having located another cushion, which he gently placed behind Dolores’ head. She settled into it with a weary sigh. Folding the blanket down around her legs—he _still_ didn’t know where she’d found the thing; did she collude with Manat?—Julian bent down nearly double over the low, squat cot so that he could give her a proper once-over. His own joints gave a symphony of cracks at the angle.

“I’m going to inspect your eyes, Ms. Alfera. Is that alright?” With Dolores’ permission, he gently pried her eyelids apart, tilting the beak of his mask downward so he could get closer to her face. “Your sclera aren’t even pink. Do your eyes hurt?”

“No.”

“Hm. Have you started coughing?”

“Only every now and again.”

“I see.” He released her face, leaning back. “I noticed the fatigue. Any loss of appetite in the past week? Nausea?”

“I’ve not had much thought for food, if you catch my meaning, doctor.” Dolores’ eyes fluttered closed.

“Ah. Right. Well, stomach cramps?”

“No, aside from the normal irritability. All’s well in the old gut.”

“Very early stage, then,” he muttered. Julian turned to Ellis, where the boy was still tucked in his armor of fraying sheets. If anything, even less of his face was visible now than before, and his eyes darted aimlessly, unwilling to settle on anything for long. They went several times to his sister, and brother, and the floor. Julian pursed his lips, loathe to disturb him. “What about your grandson?”

“Ellis?” The sigh that Dolores heaved spoke volumes. “Ah, the lad’s a stubborn one to get anything out of. He’s weak, though. Tired.” Her voice trailed off in volume the longer she spoke. “Definitely—definitely eating less. Child normally has the appetite of a lion. Not as much, any more.”

“Does he have the cough?”

The question came low, for that was always the killer. Plague symptoms could vary. They  _always_ had the cough.

“He’s only just started,” Dolores muttered.

Julian nodded grimly.

Face pinching, Dolores tried to straighten where she’d sagged against the wall, a low sound escaping her. If Julian had to guess, he’d say the position was doing something unkind to her back. He helped her to lay back down, shifting the pillows with her so that she was supported, more so than his younger patients. He took care in tucking the blanket around her shoulders, and when she sighed in exhaustion, he did as well, agreeing with the sentiment whole-heartedly.

“Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?”

“No, doctor. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Thank you for answering my questions, then, madam. I’ll leave you to sleep now.”

“It’s Dolores,” she said, and frowned as he turned away. “Wait—doctor?”

He paused. “Yes?”

“Are you—are you _quite _sure it’s the plague? That is—well. Are you certain that it’s hit all of us?”

Heart sinking, Julian turned back around. Dolores wasn’t looking, though, as if the fragile specter of her hope would fade the moment she opened her eyes. Her face was set, but her lower lip trembled slightly, betraying her; Julian burned with the knowledge of what she wanted him to say, who she wanted him to save. It was always the same. They were barely ill, after all. It was only a small cough. Why did they have to die?

Much as he’d like to say there was a chance, though, it was unlikely that Dolores and her grandson had simply caught a cold. Not when the rest of their family was nearly gone.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Alfera.”

“Even Ellis?” Her voice was plaintive, but not hopeful. “Are you quite certain?”

“I am. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed thickly, and nodded with more grace than Julian had expected. He knew that his sympathy counted for little.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Of—Of course.”

When Julian escaped back to his desk, it took all his might not to fall into the chair for a moment’s rest. He knew if he sat, he would not rise again. He could no longer still the minute trembling of his hands. The combination of exertion, caffeine, and multiple layers of protective garments drenched Julian in a fine layer of sweat. He could feel it dripping down his face, tickling down the long line of his nose—but there was naught he could do. The mask was starting to become unbearable, hot and confining, drowning him in the scent of rose.

In lieu of sitting, he leaned most of his weight atop the desk, hands splayed carelessly over scattered parchments, neck stinging beneath the bandages.

There was still so much to do.

“Almost done?” he asked Manat.

“Yes. Did you know that you are almost out of valerian extract?”

He heaved a great sigh, closing his eyes. “I’m unfortunately well aware.”

At least they’d had enough for the whole family, he thought in grim hindsight. Sparing a glance around, Julian dreaded what may have happened otherwise. All the late-stage victims were sleeping, analgesics applied, but things with Patrick could’ve easily gone south. He was strong enough to do serious injury to someone. Instead, he lay quiet, his fit over, his wounds bandaged. Dolores and Ellis were settled peacefully in their beds. Aya was breathing. “Grim hindsight” was an unfortunately common catchphrase in Julian’s life, but the worst had not happened. Not today.

He was lucky enough to have had help this time.

“Manat.”

“Mm?” They looked up briefly.

“Thank you.”

Their hands stilled.

Julian was unable to keep the waver out of his voice. “Things would have gone poorly if not for your arrival. I—I’m grateful.”

Carefully sealing the oil of chamomile bottle, Manat placed it back on its shelf before turning to Julian. “You’re welcome, doctor.” They crossed their arms, but the set of their shoulders remained soft. He got the impression that they were smiling beneath the mask.

“It’s nice, having another person around,” he admitted. “I could get used to it.”

They gave a decisive nod. “That is the idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A “gorget” may be one of several articles of clothing, armor, or jewelery designed to cover the throat. In this case, the plague masks have a heavy cloth cowl/gorget designed to help seal off the mask and protect the wearer. (“Cowl” here meaning not a hood, but a draping neckline.)
> 
> 2\. An infusion is made by steeping an ingredient, usually an herb or flower, in hot water. Tea is a type of very mild infusion.   
A decoction is made by boiling an ingredient to extract more of its essence. This is usually done with hardier things like bark, roots, etc.   
A tincture is made by soaking an ingredient in alcohol over a long period of time. This is a very concentrated extraction.   
An oil is made by pressing an ingredient to extract it in its purest form. This is the most concentrated, but also most expensive method, since it doesn't involve a base. The process is highly specialized.


End file.
